The Darkest Hour
by SharpAsScissors
Summary: Three years after the Fall, John discovers Sherlock has been secretly following him. Sherlock takes John back to where he's been staying in Scotland and they are forced to admit their feelings for each other. All seems to be going well until a young woman is mysteriously murdered - and Sherlock is right in the middle of it! John/Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

August – three years post fall

Sherlock watched John from a bench across the street as he went in to a small café for coffee, as he did at least once a month since his "death". He followed John, watched all his movements, noticed _everything _– but he refused to call it stalking. No, he was merely checking up on his friend. Sherlock noted how old John had begun to look. His hair had begun to gray and the wrinkles and laugh lines on his face had become more prominent. As if Sherlock's absence in his life had worn on him so much more than even the war. Before Sherlock had left, John always acted as the constant positive to Sherlock's negative. He had walked through life with a bit of a spring in his step. Now he moved with a limp – albeit a psychosomatic one.

As John stood in line he glanced around constantly, as though looking for someone. Ever since Sherlock's "death" John has been more aware of everything around him. He checks behind him, moves around like he is being followed – and he was, for a short time. The assassins hired to shoot John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade followed him for months until they thought they were certain of Sherlock's demise. Sherlock supposed they were paid extra for just that.

John placed his order and shifted from foot as he waited, glancing furtively around, as though ready to make a mad dash at any given moment. The barista was clearly flirting with him, though John didn't notice that sort of thing anymore. He smiled politely as she handed him two drinks, but it didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock wished John would smile again, a real smile. Even as frequently as he came down from where he was staying in Scotland to follow John, he hadn't seen it for some time. Not since before the fall.

Sherlock lifted the hood of his pullover around his head when John came out of the café. He stopped, almost petrified. John stood frozen in the doorway staring at his hands in the realization that he'd just ordered a drink for Sherlock. His hands shook and he began to breathe heavily. Sherlock watched as he dropped both cups in the trash and staggered to the nearest table. He took several deep breaths as he tried to steady himself.

Sherlock clenched his fists as he watched the pain cross John's face. There had to have been another way – one he hadn't thought of – because this. This was torture. Watching John grieve his death just a few meters from him and knowing that hurting John was the best way of protecting him. His best friend. His only friend.

* * *

September

John stared into the mirror at his face as he brushed his teeth. Lifeless. He spat. He felt so mechanical. Like he was just going through the motions anymore. He was glad for his military background; that made it easier for him to just turn his brain off. Ignore the world. Ignore life. Ignore the hellish nightmare he was in and the aching loneliness he felt at Sherlock's absence.

He wished he could move on – forget Sherlock, his best friend. Forget what he'd done for him. Forget how Sherlock had rescued him from the monotonous drone of the life he'd fallen into after the war. Sometimes the pain was too much.

_No,_ he wouldn't give those memories up for anything. The most harrowing of memories were the ones he held most dear. As much as they tormented him, they were all he had left.

He hobbled down to the kitchen where an envelope lay on the table. He picked it up and shoved money inside. He sealed it and wrote "RENT" on the front for Mrs. Hudson. After Sherlock jumped, she said he could only pay his half until he got back on his feet. He wondered why, after so long, she still allowed him to pay half. Best not to ask though.

He dropped the envelope in her mail slot on his way out of the flat. He never could stay there long. Maybe he'd go to a pub later. Call someone up and have a few rounds with one of his mates from his younger years. Might even meet a nice girl.

He sighed. That never really worked to take his mind off his depression for very long though. There had been several nice women for John over the years. They never seemed to stick around for very long though. John couldn't blame them. He didn't even remember their names at this point anyway.

Wherever he was going to go, it wasn't here. He left, pulling his coat tightly around him against the chill. It had been particularly cold of late. He'd settled on looking for a job. The last few had fallen through. He hadn't managed to keep one for very long. It was always something to do with his mood.

Sherlock watched John limp away from inside of Speedy's. He waited for John to round a corner before walking out himself. He unlocked the door with the key he still had and stepped in. He stared up at the door to the flat. This was as close as he'd ever gotten. He didn't dare go up and take a peak. He might be tempted to take something, or worse, stay.

He tapped on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"A minute!" she called. Sherlock could hear her as she padded from her couch to the door.

She scowled upon seeing him. "Since he's just left, I'll assume you're not here to stay."

"You know I can't-"

"Won't."

"-as much as I'd like to."

She glared daggers at him but opened the door wider for him to step in. "Like a cup of tea? Maybe a biscuit?"

He shook his head and made no move to sit down. "No, I've only come to drop off this." He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"You may as well live there if you're going to keep paying rent like you do." She suggested, as she always did when he dropped of the other half of the rent.

He remained silent.

"But you won't." She crossed her arms. "Fine. Alright."

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock finally looked up at her and said, "John is far better off without me."

"That's debatable," she said tautly.

"Well, I should go."

She frowned but wished him well when he left.

* * *

October

Sherlock pulled his newspaper up to cover most of his face as John's gaze brushed over him. Though he wouldn't even recognize Sherlock anyway as he was in one of his many disguises. Sherlock wore a brown trench coat today (he couldn't bear to not have one on) that was excessively baggy, so as not to tell his definite shape, a ball cap, sunglasses that covered a large amount of his face, and a fake beard that itched. He felt tacky and rather awkward, but it did well to hide his identity.

He got up as John began walking and rounded a corner. Sherlock folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. He followed John at what Sherlock had deemed a "safe" distance for a couple of blocks as John made his way through the ins and outs of London.

It was rather crowded on the sidewalk and a man bumped into Sherlock making him drop his newspaper. Sherlock huffed in disgust as he bent to retrieve the paper. When he stood back up again, John had disappeared. Sherlock quickly scanned the crowd for John, but he was nowhere in sight.

Sherlock made his way to the alleyway he'd last seen John standing next to. He walked swiftly down the alley only to make the realization too late. John knew he was being followed.

Sherlock heard the click of a gun as John said, "Don't move and put your hands in the air." John had been getting better at this. He'd pulled the great Sherlock Holmes into a trap.

"You've been following me for some time now. Why? Who are you? What the hell do you want from me?" John interrogated.

Silence.

"Look, I'm not really in the mood to shoot someone today, so do me a favor and don't make me have to."

Sherlock turned to face John and slowly pealed his beard away and removed his glasses.

John's eyes went wide and he dropped the gun.

Obvious shock. Increased breathing rate. Visibly shaking. Possible rage or elation.

Clenched fists. Definitely rage.

"Sherlock?" John said, barely audible above a whisper. His voice shook.

"…John," Sherlock gave his best coy smile.

"You bastard!" John growled. And that's when John Watson punched Sherlock Holmes in the face.

Sherlock stumbled backwards and fell. He hadn't expected John to hit him so hard.

John pounced on top of him and pushed him fully to the ground. He straddled Sherlock, hitting him a few more times, each one with considerably less force than the last. Sherlock didn't fight back though. He took it like a man because deserved it and he knew it. He hated himself for leaving John alone like that. He wanted to be hit.

When John finally stopped hitting him, Sherlock's nose was broken, his lip was split, his pale skin was colored with bruises, and he was bleeding profusely. John stared down at what he'd done to Sherlock. He'd put all his rage and anger at Sherlock for leaving him so alone in the world again.

And all of a sudden he felt as though he couldn't take it anymore. He collapsed on top of Sherlock and wept into his chest.

"You were dead!" He sobbed, "I watched you fall! I watched you _fall_, Sherlock, I _saw_ you. How can you be here? You were dead… You were dead…"

Sherlock never comforted people – he didn't know how – so he simply let John cry there into his chest and focused on breathing through his mouth (since the blood made breathing through his nose rather impractical). Normally he found such displays of emotion pointless, pathetic, and repulsive, but this was different. It always was with John.

They stayed there in the alley like that for a few more moments before John abruptly sat up and wiped his face of all tears. He stared down at Sherlock, still in disbelief.

"Right," John said and stood, reaching for Sherlock's hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

John pulled Sherlock up into a tight embrace. Sherlock hugged John in return.

"I… I'm glad you're alive…" John choked out before squeezing Sherlock tight once more then turning back down the alley.

They walked back to the flat in silence, John keeping Sherlock in his sight at all times and holding on to his sleeve. He couldn't bear to have Sherlock out of his sight. He still felt as though he was in another of his dreams. Soon he would wake up, Sherlock would be dead, and he would be left alone, yet again, to face the cold reality that was the world.

Sherlock held his breath as he went up the steps of the flat. He hadn't been back here in three years. 221B. He ran his fingers over the numbers as he stepped in. He noted the subtle changes as he made his way up the stairs to the door to the flat. Their flat. As often as he followed John, he never came back in here because he knew he wouldn't be able to leave again if he did.

When Sherlock walked in he was surprised to find everything almost the same as he'd left it. Mrs. Hudson had boxed his things up. Had John really gone through the trouble of unpacking them again?

All of Sherlock's things were on the mantle, including his skull. His violin untouched on a stand. The wall where Sherlock had previously made bullet holes now had dents to match.

John realized what Sherlock was looking at and his cheeks flushed as he turned and headed into the kitchen, still dragging Sherlock by the sleeve. He sat Sherlock at the table and got a rag, water, cotton swabs, and rubbing alcohol. As he gathered these he constantly looked back to Sherlock worriedly, then pursed his lips and turned back to his supplies.

Sherlock observed that John had purchased new plates when he opened up the cupboard to retrieve a bowl. The previous plates had been approximately the same size as the dents that now covered the living room wall. He could safely guess what had happened to the aforementioned dining ware.

John pulled up a chair across from Sherlock and tended his wounds. He cleaned the blood off of his face and sterilized the cuts all in silence. When he finished he tended to the cuts on his own knuckles. It would seem Irene Adler was right – one could indeed cut their hand hitting Sherlock's face. John stood and put on a kettle to make tea. Then he sat back in the chair and stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock was first to break the silence. "I truly am sorry," he told John.

"Why, Sherlock? After all this time, why now? Why not tell me you weren't dead sooner?" John's voice wavered as he spoke.

"I was protecting you. The less you knew the better."

"Don't try to be clever. I know everything – who was following me, why you jumped – everything except how you survived. I just don't understand why you couldn't tell me. I could have kept it a secret, and you know it."

Sherlock let out a sigh. "Because you were the one person that truly _mattered._ If you didn't look thoroughly convinced that I was lying dead in front of you they would have _killed _you, John. No hesitating. I couldn't bear the thought of that. You're my only true friend – my best friend – if you knew I wasn't dead, and didn't have the proper reaction, do you really think they would have paused for even a moment before shooting you?"

John knew he was right. Why did he always have to be right? He looked away. "Fine. Alright. But three years, Sherlock, _really_? It has been safe for you to return for a long while," he looked back at Sherlock, "I made certain of that."

"It wasn't safe. Not only because of the assassins but also the government wants to bring me in for fear I was the criminal mastermind behind Moriarty's plot." John rolled his eyes. "And what exactly do you mean 'I made certain of that,' hm?"

The kettle whistled, signaling that the water was boiled and the tea ready to be made. John stood and prepared the tea into two mugs and sat back down again. Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

"Do you really not know what I did those months after your death?" Sherlock shook his head. "And here I thought you had been following me. What a lousy stalker you make."

"I kept an extremely low profile those first few months…"

"Right. Well… I'd spent that time proving your innocence. I couldn't let everyone think you were a fake and let Moriarty get off scot-free." He looked down at his mug, stirring his tea. "In fact, I almost killed your brother in the process…"

Sherlock almost choked on his tea. "You_ what_?!"

* * *

"_Sherlock," he would whisper to himself when he was alone. Even when he wasn't he felt it. He didn't think there was any hope left in the world. All of the mystery and life had gone. Life was no longer a thing of beauty but entirely repulsive. He found it hard to tolerate being awake or doing anything at all._

_Often he would wake in the night in a cold sweat, usually yelling Sherlock's name. Every night he watched Sherlock fall, over and over. Like reruns of a bad television show, but you wouldn't turn it off because it was the only thing on. These nightmares were always so much worse than the ones of Afghanistan. In these he was always losing the one thing he had going for him. He remembered the fear dreams of the war always brought. The smell of gunpowder and sweat. The way the dirt stung his nose. Now he felt a great, resounding nothing right in the pit of him. He feared it would swallow him whole._

_Mrs. Hudson visited him often in the hotel he'd been staying in since. He barely ate unless it necessary or she had brought him something to eat. She frequently tried to convince him to return to the flat. "His things are all packed away now. You can come back any time," she insisted it was because of this that he could return._

_What she didn't realize was that the absence of his belongings only made it harder to handle._

"_I'm worried for you, John," she would say as she placed a hand on his knee. When he wouldn't respond she would usually just go quietly, leaving him alone with his thoughts once again._

_At one point she almost forced him to leave the hotel room for the first time in weeks. "You can't sit around and mope forever!" She had said just before leaving him for the day. "You need to get out of here and do something productive!"_

_So he did._

_He'd cleaned himself up and left the hotel for the first time in ages. He left a note at the Diogenes Club for Mycroft to meet him at the warehouse they'd first met at 6:00 PM._

_When Mycroft arrived he raised his eyebrows upon seeing John. "I hardly expected to hear from you. Especially now that Sherlock's dead, neither one of us has anything of need from the other."_

_Why did the first thing out of his mouth have to be some stupid comment on his brother? John couldn't listen to Mycroft talk of Sherlock so trivially. He walked straight up to Mycroft and hit him harder than he'd ever hit anyone in his life. Mycroft caught himself as he stumbled backward but John just hit him again so he fell on his arse._

"_Doesn't family mean anything to you?!" He yelled at Mycroft. Underneath the bruises and blood Mycroft looked rather shocked and confused. "Ugh. Don't answer that. It's obvious that isn't anything that has ever been important to you for anything other than asking favors."_

_Mycroft didn't answer._

"_It's your fault he's dead, you know," John glowered at him. "If you hadn't told Moriarty his life story Sherlock might be alive right now. Does that even bother you?"_

_Silence still, but the look on Mycroft's face said everything. He looked genuinely upset, but only at the fact that the world had lost its most brilliant mind, not that he was the cause of his own brother's death._

"_You disgust me," John spat in his face. "You're a sorry excuse for a human being."_

"_Did you have me come here simply to beat me like a dog and call me names?" Mycroft asked as if the only thing that bothered him about this was that he was potentially missing an opportunity to make a business deal. He stood and wiped himself off. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his bleeding nose._

"_No, actually. Here's what's going to happen: You're going to help me prove Sherlock's innocence. It's the least you could do after sending your only brother to an early grave."_

"_And what _exactly_, do you propose I do?"_

"_You're going to publicly announce that Sherlock never had a childhood friend named 'Rich Brook'. You don't have to announce it was you who gave him the information (unless it comes to that, of course). I know how important it is to you to look good, and what could be worse than selling out your brother to a maniac?"_

_Mycroft looked shocked momentarily, like he was wondering how this poor, cripple soldier could possibly have the audacity to ask him something of this magnitude. But it wasn't really that monumental a thing to do – especially if it meant John would never pester (remind) him about what he did to Sherlock again._

_John spent the following months gathering evidence against Moriarty. It was during this time that he found out exactly why Sherlock jumped and also that he was being followed. He did his best to get as much as he possibly could before coming out with it. If this was the last thing he was going to do for Sherlock, by God, he was going to do it right._

* * *

When John finished telling him this, Sherlock looked positively astounded. Point for John.

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock didn't understand why John would go to all the trouble of proving a dead man innocent.

John looked down at his tea. "You're my best friend. I couldn't very well have you dead _and _thought a criminal mastermind."

"… You always believed in me… Even when I gave you every reason not to."

John turned red. "Yep. That's me. May as well tattoo 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' on my backside."

Sherlock chuckled. It was nice to think that had John never lost faith in him. He smiled softly at John.

"So…" John was eager to change the subject. "How exactly did you survive that fall?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's rather simple, John, really. If you'd only just pay attention."

"Sorry, I was a little preoccupied at that point in time. I'll try to be more observant the next time you're _jumping off a building_."

Sherlock ignored the snide comment. "Obviously where you were standing was important. I stressed that. I made sure you were behind a building so you wouldn't see me hit the ground. I actually jumped into the back of a nearby truck, landing safely. I then got out and had various members of my Homeless Network spread blood and surround me to give me the appearance of death. I also had them make sure you couldn't check my pulse anywhere besides my right arm. I used that tennis ball I'd been tossing around all day in order to stop the pulse in that arm."

John was astounded. It must have taken a lot to orchestrate his death. If he'd been off by a few feet when jumping he really could have ended up scattered along the sidewalk.

"But how did you get out of the morgue? What was in the coffin?"

"Well, the coffin is empty, of course. And naturally I'd had the aid of a one Miss Molly Hooper."

John was stunned. He'd never suspected Molly of knowing Sherlock's whereabouts. But it did make perfect sense that he would require her assistance. It also explained why she'd acted so odd the first few times he'd seen her after the incident and every time he'd mentioned how he missed Sherlock.

"And as far as where I'd stayed goes – since you are about to ask," Sherlock said, interrupting his reverie, "Molly arranged that I stay with some family friends of hers up in Scotland. I traveled through back roads and under the radar of the government with the help of the Homeless Network. I stayed with a woman named Elise Gallagher – she is Scottish, her husband Irish – and her eight positively monstrous children. By _God,_ the woman is Satan's incarnate!"

John chuckled, "How ever did you survive?" It was nice to hear him laugh again. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd seen John even remotely happy in earnest.

"Speaking of Elise," Sherlock glanced at the time, "She does expect me to return this evening…" He trailed off.

"I'm coming with you," said John, without hesitating for a moment. "I've got you back now. I'm not letting you go so soon."

Sherlock beamed at John. "I suggest you pack, then. The next train leaves at 10:15 and its 9:03 now. And seeing as how it takes 45 minutes at least to get there, you might want to be quick about it."

"Right. Yes." John was packed within 10 minutes and the two men hailed a cab and were off to the train station.

They purchased tickets (Sherlock using his fake ID) and got settled in their seats. John tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He leaned his arm against Sherlock's, still needing the constant reminder of his presence. It was strange to have Sherlock back in his life so suddenly, though not unwelcome. He'd missed his friend for so long it was good to be in his company again.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was incredibly aware of the heat of John's arm against his. The warmth of his body as he leaned more and more weight on Sherlock as he gradually fell asleep. He preoccupied himself with being nosy.

The couple across the aisle was having issues, as dictated by the redness in the woman's eyes and the way they leaned away from each other.

The bald man in front of them had just returned from an affair that he'd clearly told his wife was a business trip.

The man checking tickets had a drunkard son he was worried about.

The woman at the front of the car hated trains and got motion sickness from even thinking about them but this was the only option she had if she wanted to arrive at her sister's wedding in time.

The married couple diagonal from them were each having an affair. The man had his suspicions. The woman knew. Neither was aware it was with the same person.

It was ever so boring.

They were ever so _ordinary_.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, considering resting for a while. He thought how pleased Elise would be that Sherlock had a guest over. She always worried about him; watched out for him even when he didn't need it. Sherlock knew he could depend on her for anything and she would comply, no questions asked. She was one of the few people he truly enjoyed the companionship of, despite everything he'd said about her. She'd reminded him of John, in ways; perhaps that was why he liked her so much. Neither of them was afraid to call him a moron (or any other various names, for that matter) directly to his face. She and John were certainly the only ones who could get him to do just about anything.

He thought back to when he'd met her.

* * *

_It was somewhere around midnight when Sherlock knocked on the door of the two story house that was practically a mansion it was so large. It resided on the outskirts of the small Scottish town. He didn't want to be here. This family had eight children. That did not usually bode well for Sherlock, but this was the only place Molly could find that would take him in – and she'd insisted that he lived with someone so he didn't have to go out in public for a while._

_Why couldn't she just let him live alone somewhere?_

_A light came on upstairs, then two more downstairs. A middle-aged woman with flaming red hair cracked the door. Astonishingly green eyes peered around the door to see who the caller might be this late at night. She beamed and swung the door open wider to let him in._

_Looking at her fully, Sherlock was able to gather information._

_Dogs – 3. Housewife. Husband makes a lot of money. Paints in her fre-_

_Sherlock pushed it to the back of his mind. He'd do this later. He catalogued it all subconsciously as she eagerly greeted him._

"_You must be Sherlock! I am Elise Gallagher." She exclaimed and offered her hand. Sherlock took it in a firm shake. "Come in! Please come in! You must be extremely tired after your journey!"_

_She directed him to the front room. It was brightly painted with deep blue couches and a darkly stained mahogany coffee table. Toys were strewn around the edges of the room, threatening to jump under his step at any given moment._

Dear God, _Sherlock thought,_ Small children.

"_Might you be hungry? Would you like some tea?" Elise offered, her accent thick as she spoke._

_Ugh. She was going to mother him._

"_No." He said flatly._

"_Is there anything at all I can get you, then?"_

"_I'd like to be shown to my quarters."_

"_Right. Just up these stairs here." She gestured toward the grand staircase. "I suppose I can show you the house in the morning, yes?"_

_He nodded absently in her direction._

_Elise decided Sherlock's complete disregard for etiquette was due to his obvious lack of sleep and directed him down the hallway to their only spare room. It was much larger than he'd expected – two people could comfortably live in it – with a queen size bed in one corner, a wardrobe and matching nightstand, and a single window that let in the moonlight. The walls were painted white and void any décor. Simple. Clean. It would do._

"_This one's yours. The linens are all fresh. I've taken the liberty of purchasing some new clothes for you, since I was told you'd had none with you. I do hope they'll fit alright. The bathroom is just down the hall, there," she pointed when he turned to see. "The children have their own bathroom, so you have that one to yourself. I won't wake you in the morning, since I know it's been a long night for you. However, if you care to join us, breakfast is at 7:30."_

_When Sherlock didn't respond she said, "Right. I'll just leave you to it then, shall I?"_

_He didn't make a move to acknowledge her going, so she simply left._

_After she'd left, Sherlock sank onto the bed and put his head in his hands. He let out a long sigh. Maybe tonight he would get some sleep._

_Sherlock woke the next morning around 8:00. He put on some clothes he'd found in the wardrobe that he thought acceptable and made his way downstairs._

_Elise was standing at the stove cooking eggs while her husband drank tea and read the newspaper._

_Elise smiled when she saw him. "Oh, I thought you'd be up around this time! Good. I'm making you eggs now and I've some biscuits warming in the oven for you. They will be done momentarily, if you'd like to sit." She gestured to the place set for him at the table and removed the eggs from the burner. "I thought after breakfast I could introduce you to everyone – that's my husband, Alistair, by the way," Alistair nodded curtly, "– and then we could take a tour of the house and the property."_

"_That won't be necessary," Sherlock said flatly. "I don't intend on seeing much of you. I'd appreciate it if you just let me alone for the duration of my stay here. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'd like to get to know you and your family – I'm certain I know you lot already. I don't need you to take care of me and I won't require much of you. To put it simply: Don't bother me and I won't bother you."_

_Elise turned a deep shade of red and she sent Sherlock a death glare (and, although Sherlock would never admit it, it somewhat frightened him)._

"_Here it comes," Alistair commented without looking up as he turned a page in his newspaper._

_She stormed over to where he sat at the table and jabbed a finger into his chest. "Look, you. I have a right mind to throw your sorry arse out on the street. If you expect to stay here we're going to have to get some things straight. First of all, you _will_ use your manners when you speak to me. I will not suffer your poor behavior simply because you are a guest here. Secondly, I don't care who you are or how people allowed you to act before now, but that's done now and you will be treated the same as everyone else here – you will pull your own weight and eat with us, or you don't eat at all – you will _not_ be given special treatment._

"_Wipe that stupid look off your face; if you're going to act like a child I shall treat you like one. Molly told me how you were, but I didn't think you were such an annoying _prick_. If this is how you treat people I cannot begin to understand why she was so eager to help you. You are a foolish, know-nothing child."_

_Alistair put down his newspaper and stared at the two of them, waiting for Sherlock's reaction. Elise was fuming and breathing hard. Sherlock had gone entirely still with rage. You could almost see the friction between them. Sherlock rose from his chair and stood so close to Elise their chests bumped every time she inhaled. He towered over her and glowered down into her eyes. She didn't move to back down._

"_You, madam, have never been more wrong in your life. Know-nothing," Sherlock scoffed, "Just by looking at you I _know_ that you have three dogs, 2 medium in size, one large. You're a housewife, and with eight children your husband must have a high paying job. You have a garden, which you tend yourself. You clean and cook yourself, although you have the money to hire someone to do it. You firmly believe in teaching your children to do things for themselves. You paint and sculpt in your free time. You are extremely extroverted, though you do enj-"_

_Sherlock was interrupted by Elise's laughter. "You think that makes you a genius?" She sneered, "Telling me things I already know about myself. Thank you, young man, for you see, that makes me a genius too! Ha! Anyone could tell someone something they already know!"_

"_Fine!" Sherlock smirked, getting ever so close to her. "What can you tell about me?"_

_She smiled and never took her eyes from him. "You're a high-functioning sociopath. You are extremely proud and think yourself never wrong. You believe in no higher power, only yourself. You get off on impressing other people, but you hate them because they aren't intellectually stimulating enough for you. You don't like to get too attached to people or things, so you've only a few friends. One friend that you would actually do anything for. But you don't believe in emotions. You think they get in the way of doing work and are pointless, but the truth is you just don't fully understand them and that scares you. Sherlock Holmes: Aspiring Automaton," She chuckled and narrowed her eyes at him. "Tell me I'm wrong. If I'm wrong, you can stay here and do as you please. If I'm right, you abide by my rules."_

"_How could you possibly know all that?"_

"_The same way you did. I noticed it. It's all a matter of noticing the_ right_ things, Sherlock, you know this. Now, how about meeting the family?"_

From that point on they'd been friends. She'd bullied him and he respected that.

* * *

When Sherlock and John arrived the sun was already setting. Sherlock didn't even have time to get out the key Elise had made for him when the door flew open and a small redheaded girl ran to Sherlock.

She wrapped her arms around Sherlock's legs and cried, "Oh, Sherlock! I thought you'd never come back for me! I missed you ever so dreadfully!" She ignored John altogether.

"Her mother reads her Victorian novels." Sherlock whispered to John and chuckled. "Get inside and let your mother know I've brought a guest."

The girl looked up at him and pouted in protest but begrudgingly did as she was told. John quirked his eyebrow at Sherlock. Sherlock just shrugged and led John through the door.

The smell of cooking food was overwhelming. John's mouth salivated after not having had much to eat all day. As he looked around he noticed that this was not a place Sherlock would normally stay. He'd changed since John had seen him last. Not by much, but enough for John to notice.

"Sherlock!" A woman's voice called from the kitchen.

Sherlock had John drop his things by the staircase and they both headed into the kitchen. A woman with the same red hair as the girl stood at the stove cooking pork.

"Elise Gallagher, meet John Watson, my dearest friend," Sherlock said to her.

She turned and smiled at him, a very "mom" smile, and reached out a hand to him. "Oh, Sherlock, you never told me you had such a handsome friend!" She winked at John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to examine the food.

John blushed.

"My goodness, Sherlock!" She grabbed him and pulled him to her. "What happened to your face?"

Sherlock nodded toward John, who smiled sheepishly.

Elise sighed in relief. "Oh, good! I thought something bad had happened."

John furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Sherlock just shook his head. "At this point, I've learned not to question her priorities."

John nodded and laughed. He turned to Elise. "I hope I'm not imposing. I can find another place to stay if it's too much trouble?"

She laughed. "I have eight children. They bring unannounced guests over all the time – sometimes all at once! Believe me, it's no trouble at all." She smiled and looked back at her food, determining doneness, "If you're going to be here for a while, perhaps you should meet everyone. Dinner!" Her voice rang through the house. Suddenly you could hear several sets of feet as they raced down the stairs to the dining area.

Three boys and a girl rushed into the room, with who John assumed was their father trailing behind.

"Before you eat, this is Mr. John Watson. He's a friend of Sherlock's and will be staying with us for a while." Elise introduced him. "Not all my children are here at the moment, my four oldest have moved out already. However, John, this is my husband Alistair, my sons Cathal, Erskine, and Dagda – 17, 14, and 12, respectively – and my daughter Arabella – she's 8."

John smiled awkwardly at them. He wasn't used to so many children. Elise set a place for him and they all sat to dinner.

The children were excited to see Sherlock. Alistair quietly ate, making only a few comments. John and Sherlock laughed and got settled back into their old lives with each other. And Elise observed everything.

* * *

After dinner, Sherlock helped Elise with the dishes while the children kidnapped John to show him their rooms.

"You love him, don't you?" That was Elise, direct and to the point. So blunt.

Sherlock paused. "Of course. He's my dearest friend."

She gave him a look and used her mom voice on him. "You know what I mean, Sherlock."

"I don't know what you mean at all… I'm not gay if that's what you're thinking."

She set down the dishes she was currently working on and dried her hands. She gave him a serious look. "How do you know? Have you ever had any other relationship?"

Sherlock was silent.

"Look, I've known you for three years and I've never seen you look at someone like you look at him. You want him to be happy. You care about how he feels and what he thinks. He's the only one I've ever seen you care about like that. Love, I think it's time you reevaluate just how you feel about John."

He stopped what he was doing and stared out the window above the sink. He thought about everything John meant to him.

John was Sherlock's best friend. But more than that, he was his savior. John was the light that rescued Sherlock from the darkest recesses of his mind. He was always there for Sherlock on one of his "danger nights." He was the only one Sherlock could depend on to be there through everything Sherlock put him through, and Sherlock was so very dependent on his presence. The only one that had never been annoyed with what Sherlock could do, but entirely impressed by it.

Every time John called him brilliant, his heart beat faster. Every time John laughed, his mood lightened. He constantly sought out ways to impress John or make him happy. John made him a better man.

When Sherlock figured out what Moriarty intended on doing, his only thought was of John. When he had to jump, he cried; even though he knew he would be able to return one day he also knew that he would have to hurt John to save him.

John was the only one that mattered. He would always be the only one that mattered to Sherlock.

"What if I do? What do I do then?" Sherlock was stricken with grief because he didn't know what to do. He didn't understand emotion or human interaction entirely.

Elise smiled softly at him. "Tell him, of course."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he shook his head.

"I see the way he looks at you. All moms know the look."

"And suppose you're wrong?"

"That's a risk we all have to take when we love someone."

"I don't think I can." He looked away.

"_Sherlock Holmes. _You will not leave my house until you tell that man you're in love with him," She gave him a stern look.

He nodded, knowing she wasn't going to negotiate this.

* * *

After they finished the dishes Elise and Alistair put the children to bed and went to bed themselves. John gathered his bags from the bottom of the stairs and followed Sherlock up to his room. Sherlock had obviously made the room entirely his while living here. Books were piled everywhere, Sherlock had put in a desk, and that was covered in his experiments. The bed was made, though, and his clothes were all in the wardrobe. Controlled chaos, he supposed.

"I'll take the couch downstairs until we leave," said Sherlock.

John looked at the large bed. "That won't be necessary. Who knows how long we'll be here." He set his belongings by the wardrobe. "We can share the bed, if you don't mind."

When Sherlock didn't respond he added, "Plus, it would really give me peace of mind."

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, of course."

They went through their nightly routines and clambered into bed. John took the side closest to the wall, deciding they would have to move the bed out tomorrow. John was comforted by the warmth of Sherlock's body near his – though they weren't touching – and fell asleep quickly, the soft rhythm of Sherlock breathing a lullaby to him.

Sherlock had more trouble getting to sleep. He had so many thoughts to process. Sometimes he couldn't quiet his thoughts and they ran rampant, discouraging any thoughts of sleep. He hoped tonight wouldn't be like that.

His mind was so loud, inundated with thought. All of them about the same thing – John.

Would John be disgusted? Or was Elise right?

He'd only ever known John to date women. And when people mistook them for a couple, he was sure to correct them. He'd never come on to Sherlock – or any other man, for that matter. Then again, even if he had, Sherlock wouldn't have had the slightest idea.

But Elise was almost always right – especially when it came to people – and that in and of itself was enough to offset his previous doubts. John also obviously cared for him deeply, gay or not. He cared what people thought of Sherlock more than Sherlock did himself. He'd broken a man's nose for badmouthing Sherlock.

He sighed heavily. Elise was stubborn about this and wouldn't let it go. Hopefully she'd let him do this at his own pace. Hopefully John wouldn't completely hate him after.

He rolled onto his side and retrieved his phone. He typed out a text and sent it to both Molly and Mrs. Hudson.

John is with me. Tell anyone who asks he's taken an unexpected trip indefinitely. –SH

He turned back over to his back and stared at the ceiling as his mind flooded with thought. Eventually he fell into a dreamless asleep, too exhausted from being awake.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke to the sight of Sherlock's face only a few inches from his, still sleeping peacefully. Somewhere through the night the two men had shifted to holding one another. Their legs were tangled together and Sherlock's right arm was draped over John's waist, his other arm wrapped around John's right one.

John decided not to untangle himself and wake Sherlock up, so he snuggled closer and fell asleep again, glad for the warmth while it lasted.

As he moved, Sherlock woke. He was mortified to learn that he'd wrapped himself around John. He waited and listened to John's breathing patterns. Still asleep. Moving closer to Sherlock must have been an unconscious decision.

The morning light peaked through the window above the bed. Elise would be up soon to make breakfast and send her children to school and her husband to work.

He took a deep breath, John's scent filling his lungs. He was tempted to just stay there, but he knew if he did Elise would come to wake him up and never let him live down what she'd found.

He lay like that for a few more moments before gradually untangling himself from John, careful not to wake him. Being as quiet as possible, Sherlock dressed and made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. He started the coffee and sat at the table putting his head in his hands.

This would be difficult for him.

He heard Elise wake and go to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She woke her children to get dressed and came downstairs to join him.

"So? How'd it go?" She asked him excitedly.

"Shut up." Sherlock didn't even look up at her.

She made a face at him. "I suppose you didn't tell him then, did you?"

He looked up at her finally and raised his eyebrows. "Wherever would you get that idea?"

She smiled and made a cup of coffee for him. 2 sugars, just how he liked it.

"Look, I'm just joking with you. Take your time. You'll know when it's right." Elise said and put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

John came down the stairs, still in the sweats and shirt he wore to sleep.

He yawned and smiled groggily. "Good morning!"

"Good morning!" Elise greeted, "Sleep well?"

"Very much so!" John beamed.

Elise smirked and gave Sherlock a knowing look. Sherlock looked away and grimaced.

"I hope you like omelets! That's what we're having for breakfast!" Elise said animatedly as she went to the fridge to fetch the eggs.

"Is there anything I can help with?" John offered. He decided he should help with something if he was going to live in her house.

"No, you sit with Sherlock while I cook. You're my guest here."

"As I recall," Sherlock interjected, "The first day I was here you had me doing chores and running errands for you."

John laughed. "Sherlock Holmes: Errand Boy! Ha."

Elise smiled. "As _I_ recall, you were rather an arrogant prick." She smirked at him.

After breakfast, Elise took John for a tour of the property, which was rather large. Then they did a walk-through of the enormous house. Finally they went into her extensive library, complete with a fireplace and cozy sofa.

* * *

John and Sherlock woke every morning in a similar state, but it wasn't something either of them cared to talk about. Sherlock's face was healing nicely. John spent his days helping Sherlock with his "chores" or playing with the children. He joined Arabella and Heathcliff (Arabella's stuffed giraffe) for tea every other afternoon. Cathal frequently questioned John about what he did during the army and his duties as a doctor. Dagda had John playing dinosaurs. But of all of them, Erskine tried to occupy the majority of John's time.

Erskine went to John for everything. John read Erskine the lovely novels Elise kept in her library. He and John went on "adventures" over the large property the Gallagher's owned. He'd even had John sporting a pirate's hat one day. John found it all very endearing.

John occupied his evenings reading leisurely by the fire. One evening John was curled up on the small sofa that sat in front of the fireplace in his sweats and bare feet. The sun had almost set entirely and his only light source was becoming the fire that blazed before him.

He heard someone come in through the door behind him, but he was too involved in his book to notice who. The unknown person stood in front of the fire, blocking his light source.

He looked up to see Sherlock standing in front of him, looking more than disgruntled.

John looked at him questioningly. "Sherlock? Is someth-"

He was interrupted by Sherlock swiftly leaning forward and placing his mouth on John's. John was startled, this was the last thing he'd expected from his friend. The kiss was hard. Abrupt. Sherlock broke the kiss and leaned back just enough to stare into John's face.

John's brain finally caught up with what was happening. He dropped the book and reached forward to grab Sherlock by the shirt and pull him onto the couch. Sherlock braced himself on the back of the couch with one arm and ran his other hand through John's hair.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. John pulled him on top of him. Sherlock placed one of his legs on John's left side and the other conveniently between his thighs, pressing firmly against his cock.

Sherlock parted his mouth and licked John's lower lip, asking permission. John opened his mouth and suddenly their tongues were sliding in each other's mouths, as though wrestling for dominance.

John pulled Sherlock against him, so there was no space between them. A soft moan escaped John and Sherlock suddenly went still. He broke the kiss and leaned away from John. He looked around, rattled.

"What are you doing?" John asked, confused as to why he stopped. He was rather enjoying himself.

Sherlock thought he was referring to kissing him.

"I don't know…" Sherlock looked out the window. "I'm going for a walk."

Sherlock removed himself from John's lap. John closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the couch. He listened as Sherlock got his coat and left the house. He rubbed his eyes with his palms and sighed.

"Damn." He whispered to the shadows.

* * *

Sherlock walked all night. Walked miles into the middle of nowhere, realized he had no clue where he was headed, and turned around.

He wasn't sure what to do. He didn't know how to proceed with John, or that John even wanted to proceed. He was inexperienced and that wasn't how Sherlock liked to operate. He was the one who knew it all. He was too proud to admit he didn't know something.

He flipped his perspective. He decided to start with what he did know.

He knew he was in love with John, despite not really understanding just what it meant to _be_ in love. He knew how good it had felt to have John pinned underneath him, kissing him. And he knew John had to have felt _something_, or he wouldn't have moaned like he did.

But Sherlock was Sherlock and over analyzed everything. He couldn't just know what people wanted like he knew the facts about them. He could see the things about people. He could tell every detail of a person's life by glancing at them once. But as far as how they felt, he was at a loss. He couldn't explain why people did what they did.

He wandered back to the Gallagher's property and sat on a stone bench in the center of Elise's immensely overgrown garden. The sun rose, and still he sat there. Thinking.

The sun was high in the sky when Elise walked through, carrying a bag of fertilizer.

She yelped in surprise when she saw Sherlock and dropped her bag. It split in the front and spilled onto the ground. She looked up and glared at him.

"Sherlock!" She growled. She stomped over to him and punched him in the chest.

He looked at her incredulously. "It's hardly my fault you dropped that."

"That wasn't for my _dirt_, you fool. That was for John. What the hell did you do to him?"

"Nothing. I just – Why? What happened? Is he alright?"

"I should say not! He's been moping all morning! And from what I heard, I thought it was going rather well."

"He has? You did _what_?"

She rolled her eyes and gathered her dirt. "Well, you were being rather loud. It sounded like the two of you were having a very good time." She winked. "But, in all seriousness, what really went on last night?"

He sighed. "I left. I needed to think. I don't think he wanted-"

"Stop. Now. Just stop making excuses because that's not the kind of man you are. What is wrong with you? The Sherlock I know was never afraid to do anything. What happened to that man? Stop acting like a scared little boy and, for God's sake, tell John tonight!"

When Sherlock moved to protest she interrupted. "No. Don't argue with me. You can go shower and get yourself cleaned up. You can even wait until after dinner. I know I told you to take your time, but you can't do something like that to John. Come tomorrow, if you haven't told him, I will come after you."

She'd said it so menacingly, even Moriarty would have cringed at her threat. Or giggled.

"Besides, tonight all the children, by some miracle, will be at a friend's house. It's the best opportunity you could hope for!" She waggled her eyebrows at him. "Now help me with this bag. I'm repotting those tomatoes just to your left and moving them to the greenhouse," she pointed behind Sherlock. "I mean, it's the least you could do after scaring me half to death!"

* * *

After Sherlock took a shower, he collapsed on the bed and slept there all afternoon. He slept straight through dinner and only woke when John came in to get his things.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked when John opened the door to leave.

Sherlock could tell John was uncomfortable. "Ah. You're awake. I was just getting some things and I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight."

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "No. Wait. I need to talk to you," escaped his mouth before he could think better of it.

John took a deep breath and shut the door. He turned to Sherlock. "Look, you don't have to explain."

"No. I really do. Please sit, John. This is hard enough for me with you staring at me like that. The least you could do is sit down for me." He watched as John crossed the room and sat next to him on the bed. He paused to compose his thoughts. There was no backing out now.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. _Oh, god_, his heart was racing so fast. How did normal people deal with this?

"I'm a man of science, John," he began. "I believe in what I see and what I learn by my experiments. I've never believed in emotions."

He looked up at John's face. He looked like he was in pain.

"I say that emotions just get in the way – and from what I've seen, they can – but I've never really felt these strong emotions for myself. I must admit, I've never truly understood emotions or sexuality. I've never had a use for it. I don't know what people mean when they say they hate someone… or love them." Sherlock stared into John's perplexed face. It was hard for him to admit something, especially if it meant him admitting he didn't actually know something. "But now, after having had the pleasure of knowing you, I think I finally have somewhat of a grasp on the concept."

John was silent. It was as if the words just weren't connecting.

Perhaps Sherlock had to be more blunt. "John, for what it's worth, coming from someone who has always denied these sensations, I am most ardently in love with you."

John gasped, small and soft.

Sherlock continued, "I've never felt anything like it, John." He stared down at his hands. "It has consumed me, pernicious and vile and maddeningly wonderful." He smiled at his lap. "My every thought revolves around you, John, and I simply cannot take it anymore… But I understand if your affections are not the same-"

"Sherlock."

"-I mean, you've said before you aren't gay after all. But I don't-"

"Sherlock."

"-think I could handle it if you didn't want to see me-"

John leaned forward and pecked Sherlock's mouth. "You never shut up, do you?" He laughed. "Sherlock, I've been in love with you for a very long time, now. With all the deducing you do, I can't believe you never noticed."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John lightly, as though testing. John fisted his hand in Sherlock's shirt, pulling him close against him. He kissed Sherlock so hard he saw stars.

Sherlock gave John a goofy grin, his immense elation entirely present in the expression. "How long?"

John stared across the room contemplatively. "I've loved you for a very long time, but I didn't actually realize it until we met Irene."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, clearly bewildered by Irene's involvement.

John ran a hand through his hair. "Well, uh. You really seemed to like her. And I realized then how much I _didn't_ like that."

Sherlock went silent and stared away from John.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock's face was blank when he looked back at John. "So you knew you loved me then? And you still were so angry at Irene for not telling me she was alive?" Without Irene there John could have had Sherlock to himself again. Why didn't he just let her stay gone?

John nodded. "I just wanted you to be happy. And, at the time, she seemed to be what made you happiest."

Sherlock pulled John in for another long kiss. When they broke Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's, breathing hard. "I love you," Sherlock huffed.

He could almost feel John's smile when he returned, "I love you," and kissed Sherlock again.

He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's neck and the other around his waist, pulling Sherlock on top of him. John slid his hands underneath Sherlock's shirt, running his hands over the soft skin of his abdomen and chest. He rubbed circles on Sherlock's hips with the tips of his fingers. Sherlock moaned into his mouth.

John pulled back. "Wait, what about Elise? I know the kids are out, but…"

Sherlock shook his head. "She gave us her blessing. She knew how I felt about you long before I could admit it. She wants this to happen."

John laughed. "And here I thought it was just my imagination!"

John smiled and kissed Sherlock's neck, trailing kisses to his clavicle, where he sucked unabashedly. Sherlock moaned again. John took this as a sign to proceed further and began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock pushed John back a bit. "John… I've never done this before."

"I know," he said, planting a soft kiss on Sherlock's mouth. "Don't worry. I'll teach you." He said, before returning to Sherlock's collar bone.

When he finished unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt he pushed it down to his elbows and began to suck on one of Sherlock's nipples, John's hands resting around his hips. Sherlock moaned at the sensation. John leaned back and Sherlock began kissing him again. They separated only for Sherlock to pull off John's shirt, then he put his weight forward to push John back on the bed.

John sucked on Sherlock's tongue, making him thrust his hips forward in ecstasy. John began to reciprocate, his erection pushing against Sherlock's as they moved their hips in unison. John began to tug on the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. He sat up to allow John to pull Sherlock's trousers down, exposing his naked flesh.

John smirked. "No pants," he said to himself and finished pulling off Sherlock's trousers.

He stared at Sherlock's pale body on top of him, fully exposed for him. His eyes wandered from Sherlock's neck to his strong arms, down every muscle in his chest and stomach, over every vein that showed under his nearly translucent white skin, finally resting on his sizeable manhood. He blushed when he realized Sherlock was watching him.

He blushed lightly and pressed his hands over the warm skin of Sherlock's chest. He stared down at the soft, pale flesh. He was reminded just how innocent Sherlock was to being in a relationship, so to speak. But there was a difference in knowing about sex and the actual act of doing it. John would be the first and only one to have Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes." He said without hesitation.

"I can feel you shaking."

Silence.

"Look – we don't have to do this if you're not ready. It doesn't matter to me if we do this now, or not at all – though it would be preferable at some point," he chuckled. "Look, what I'm saying is if you aren't ready for this, that's okay. Most new couples don't move this fast anyway."

"We've known each other for approximately half a decade. From what I have observed, intercourse is something that usually occurs within the first couple of months. By my calculations, we've done an ample amount of waiting."

"That's not an answer."

Sherlock leaned back, panic flashed across his face for but a moment then melted away to a deep, clear resolve. It washed over him like a drug. "I'm ready. I wouldn't want this to happen with anyone else."

Sherlock smiled and bent to give John a soft kiss as he repositioned himself between John's legs.

John realized what Sherlock intended on doing and said "You really don't have to do that… I can, if you-"

"No," Sherlock stopped him. "Not this time. I love you. I'm going to show you that."

He curled his fingers around the band of John's trousers, slowly tugging them off of John's body. He leaned down to John's left knee and slowly kissed up to where his tenting boxers ended. He leaned back and pulled John's boxers off and gazed down at John's naked form beneath him. Sherlock had seen many bodies – men and women, dead and alive – but he'd never seen one he thought _so_ beautiful as John's.

John went stiff when Sherlock tenderly touched the scarred tissue on his shoulder. He traced his fingers around the pale flesh. He flattened his hand against it, though he could still feel the raised skin under his palm. John cupped Sherlock's hand in his own. He pulled Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kissed his palm.

Sherlock wanted to kiss every inch of John's body. He wanted his lips on every portion of John's skin. He kissed John's chin to his ear, where he paused to suck on John's earlobe. He trailed his way down John's neck and kissed a line across his clavicle. Sherlock kissed down John's chest and stomach, his skin soft and smooth under Sherlock's lips. He was suddenly overcome with desire to be inside John.

"Wait," John said as Sherlock moved into position between his legs. He reached forward to Sherlock's right hand and pulled it to his mouth. He began sucking on Sherlock's fingers, swirling his tongue around them, making them nice and wet. Sherlock thought he might come from that sensation alone. "Here. You have to stretch it out first or it's really going to hurt me."

Sherlock reached between them to John's entrance and slowly slid his middle finger in. John let out a soft moan. He pushed in and out a couple times then added his index finger. He added his ring finger in, stretching as he thrust his fingers in, using precum as extra lubricant.

When Sherlock pushed his fingers in as far as they would go John couldn't hold still any longer and began to roll his hips with Sherlock's thrusts. Sherlock smiled and removed his fingers.

Sherlock spat into his hand and covered his cock. He positioned himself between John's legs, his thighs resting on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock reached down and put his hands on either side of John's hips to brace him.

John grunted when Sherlock pushed into him, his hands curling around the sheets. Sherlock built a rhythmic motion and bent over John as he pumped into him. He kissed John's neck and ran his hands up John's arms to where his hands were fisted in the sheets. John uncurled his hands and intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's. Sherlock angled his hips upward and thrusted into John as far as he could.

"_Oh._ Sherlock," John moaned, "You're sure you've never done this before?"

Sherlock quickened his thrusts, feeling close to climaxing. He grunted. "Absolutely positive," he huffed in John's ear.

Sherlock squeezed John's hands tightly. "John, I… I think I'm…" He said breathlessly between thrusts.

"I know." John arched his back and their chests pressed together, sliding in the sweat.

Sherlock moaned loudly when he came, collapsing on top of John. The feeling of Sherlock cumming inside of him combined with the sheer pleasure in his voice was enough to send John over the edge, and his cum covered their stomachs.

They lay there together for several minutes before Sherlock sat up and pulled out of John. He reached down to the sheets that had made their way to the floor in their excitement and wiped all the cum off of John and himself. He lay back down next to John and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately and when he woke he felt better rested than he had in a very long time. It was comforting having John next to him as he slept. John was breathing evenly, still sleeping in his arms. Light poured in from the window. He looked over at the alarm clock on the nightstand half hidden behind books and empty glasses. 9:34 he read through the blur of the glass. 9:34 and Elise still hadn't woke them. How thoughtful.

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck and kissed him lightly. John inhaled sharply as he woke and groaned at the sunlight that assaulted his eyes. Sherlock chuckled and pulled John closer.

"Looks like we've slept through breakfast," John commented upon noticing the time.

"It would appear so. I'm sure Elise has left something for us to eat," Sherlock smiled into John's neck. "She wouldn't want you to starve." He patted John's stomach.

John chuckled. "And I suppose she wouldn't mind if you starve?" John yawned and snuggledcloser to Sherlock.

He buried his face in the crook of John's neck, his breath warm against John's skin. He intertwined their fingers together.

"John," Sherlock took a deep breath, "I think we should talk about… this… us…"

John went still in his arms. "Okay," he responded after a moment.

"I do love you, John. I adore everything about you. And I know you've been in many relationships before and more than likely have some preconceived notions as to what couples are supposed to be like, but I need you to know now, I am not the type of person to go on _romantic dates _or whisper sweet nothings. I don't do _cute._"

"I expected so." John chuckled and seemed to let out a sigh of relief. "It is enough for me just to know you love me."

Sherlock smiled and kissed John, running a hand through his hair, stiff with dried sweat.

"You know, this really explains everything." John said after a moment.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"Every relationship I've had while living with you has ended almost entirely because of you."

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, of course. That was my intent all along. I'm surprised it took you so long to figure it out."

John rolled his eyes and stretched, yawning. "I desperately need a shower," he said, feeling the pull of the thin layer of dried cum on his stomach as he moved.

"Care to join me?" Sherlock asked, crawling over John to get off the bed and grab his robe.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, knowing this was probably not a good idea, but gradually made his way off the bed anyway. Sherlock opened the door to head for the bathroom and nearly tripped over a box sitting in front of their door with a shiny, red bow atop it. Sherlock picked it up. It was rather light.

"I believe we have a gift from Elise." Sherlock laughed as he set it on the bed and opened it, examining its contents.

On top was a note labeled "Sherlock". He opened it and read it to himself.

_Sherlock-_

_Bloody well about time!_

_These are for you, try not to ruin them. I assumed you'd need a fresh set._

_Also, this will make things a whole hell of a lot easier for the both of you._

_-Elise_

_P.S. I am __NOT__ washing your disgusting sheets!_

Sherlock could almost see her soured expression as he read the last line, rolling his eyes. He chuckled and tossed the note aside. Inside the box was a folded set of clean sheets. Underneath those was a rather large bottle of lubricant next to a box of condoms.

"I guess she heard," John laughed, though mildly embarrassed, as he peered into the box.

Sherlock turned to face John, who was now wearing a navy blue robe that opened just enough to reveal his chest. He leaned down and kissed John, soft and gentle, placing his hands on either side of his face.

He smiled down at John when he pulled away. "Now. I think you and I are rather in need of a shower."

John followed Sherlock down the hall to the bathroom. For a guest bathroom, it was very large, built like any other house's master bathroom. There was a deep bath tub and a shower that looked as though it could fit several people without anyone being in another's way. The long window above the tub lit the room with soft white light and the navy blue shades kept anyone from peaking in, even though they were on the second floor.

Sherlock opened the glass door of the shower and turned the water on. Only the door and a small section of wall of the shower were glass, the rest was made up of stone tiles of varying shades of blue and gray.

John turned around and removed his robe to hang on the back of the door. Sherlock watched hungrily as his did, unable to keep his eyes off of John as the fabric was removed to reveal John's naked flesh.

_Self-control be damned,_ thought Sherlock, for the next moment he had John pinned against the wall, kissing him ravenously, shamelessly running his hands over as much of John as he could reach. He pressed his body firmly against John's as they kissed, his arousal protruding unceremoniously from his robe.

John tugged on the material, attempting to remove it. Sherlock complied and pulled the robe off his shoulders, breaking the kiss to breathe, the air thick with steam. He tugged John into the shower.

Sherlock pulled John directly into the onslaught of water, welcoming the warmth that drenched his skin. John flinched away from the intense heat of the water.

"Hell!" John yelped. "If you want to continue this here, you are going to have to turn the heat down, or we're going to pass out."

Sherlock laughed, but John was speaking from experience. He'd had a lump on his head for months afterward. Sherlock reached behind him and turned the heat of the water down, so it became luke warm. Better.

Sherlock put his hands on either side of John's face and stared at him intently, seeming as though he was searching John for something. Abruptly, he began kissing John wildly, his hands still cupped around John's face. John slowly moved one of his hands down Sherlock's torso, to between them, taking both of their erections in one hand. He pumped both of them slowly, quickening his pace when Sherlock moved his hands around behind John and slid his wet finger as far into John as he could reach.

John pulled away to breathe, but Sherlock just made his way down John's jaw line to his neck. He nibbled and sucked ravenously just above John's collarbone, still keeping an even pace as he added two fingers, three.

John moaned and writhed under Sherlock's touch. Sherlock stood back, admiring his handy-work on John's neck. He smirked at down at John, who simply rolled his eyes. Sherlock bent and kissed him lightly before forcing him round. He pushed John forward, forcing him to brace himself against the wall. John spread his legs apart, and Sherlock planted himself between them, digging his heels on the slippery tiles of the shower.

Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John, before pushing into him slowly. The water pounded against his back as he moved in John. Once he got going and felt stable on the slick shower floor, he let go of John's hip with one hand and leaned forward, reaching around to John's cock. He wrapped his long fingers around it, twisting his hand as he slid over John's shaft, pumping John hard from both ends. John groaned in ecstasy, bucking his hips in rhythm with Sherlock.

"Showering together," John huffed, "may not have been as good an idea as we initially thought."

Sherlock made a noise that John assumed was a laugh. "No. This is exactly where I surmised this would go."

As his thrusts quickened, John's toes curled, causing them to slide forward, almost toppling over. Sherlock didn't even stop. He was so close to cumming, he wasn't going to let anything stop him now.

He felt Sherlock's body shift behind him, tense with desire. They came at the same time, Sherlock letting out a deep, guttural moan as his cum filled John. Sherlock's body went limp on top of John, breathing hard. John wobbled and struggled to stay upright with Sherlock's weight on top of him. His hands slid down the wall as he groped for a hold.

"Sherlock." He elbowed Sherlock's ribcage. "Dammit, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sucked in a breath and shifted so he could bear his own weight. He kissed the base of John's neck down his spine, rubbing circles on John's hips as he pulled out. Semen ran down John's legs, warm and slick.

"I should have turned the water down more," Sherlock said as John straightened himself.

John laughed, turning. "Aha, the great Sherlock Holmes was wrong! It must be a sign of the coming apocalypse." He leaned back against the wall, pulling Sherlock against him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away. John pulled tighter and kissed Sherlock's neck.

Three sharp raps at the door caused them to separate.

"Breakfast for late risers in twenty," Elise's voice came from the other side of the door. "I expect to see you down there. _Both _of you!"

"It would seem time to conclude our little escapade," Sherlock nuzzled John's neck and kissed under his ear before turning away to grab the shampoo.

* * *

They walked out of the bathroom not 10 minutes later, donning nothing but their robes. They turned down the hall toward their room but were blocked by Arabella, staring up wide-eyed, head cocked to the side. They stared at each other in silence for a moment before she turned on her heel and stalked down the hall toward her bedroom.

"What an odd child," John remarked, chuckling.

In their room, Sherlock was going through his clothing, deciding what to wear. John's renewed presence had made him miss his old wardrobe. The way his shirts were perfectly fitted to his body. But he missed his scarf and trench coat most of all.

He sighed and grabbed black slacks that were an inch too short for his legs and a button-up shirt that was too loose around his chest. His clothing options were rather limited out here.

John pulled on jeans and his favorite striped sweater. He loved the warmth and comfort it provided.

They made their way down stairs to the kitchen where Arabella was coloring at the table and Elise was waiting patiently with two plates full of food.

She smiled when they walked in. "Good morning!" she almost sang. "John what would you like to drink with your breakfast?"

"Milk is fine." He replied, sitting at the place set for him next to Sherlock at the table.

She got a mug and glass from the cupboard. Milk for John and a steaming hot cup of coffee – black, with two sugars – for Sherlock. She sat across from them, head propped on one hand, a smile playing at her lips. She giggled when John sat and his sweater shifted just enough to expose a sliver of the bruise Sherlock had left.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is this how you always act when you know two people have…" he glanced at Arabella, determinedly scribbling away in her sketchbook, and decided against finishing the sentence. "I rather feel sorry for your children."

She laughed. "I'm just… very happy for you two." She smiled. "And it was apparent to me you two are rather well made for each other."

John blushed. She stared at them expectantly.

Sherlock scoffed. "Not that it's any of your business."

Elise smirked. "My house. My business."

"I think you're just nosy."

"Perhaps." She waited.

"Wait. What are we talking about?" John asked, bewildered.

"Elise here would like explicit details as to our goings-on last night." Sherlock informed him. John's eyes went wide. "I really don't think it would be appropriate to expose little Arabella to such language at such a young age."

She chuckled. "I didn't really expect you to tell me anyway."

"Mum," Arabella chimed in, "Why do Sherlock and John shower together?"

John almost choked on his food. Elise burst out laughing, when she finished she paused, unsure of what answer to give. She glanced at Sherlock for an idea.

"Arabella," he started, "Do you recall when you learned about being good to the environment in class?"

She nodded.

"Well, sometimes adults shower together to conserve water and be kinder to the environment."

"Oh! What a brilliant idea! You're so smart, Sherlock." She beamed at him.

Elise leaned toward John and whispered, "Seems as though you've got a bit of competition, John." She nudged him in the ribcage, giggling. "At any rate, John, I was wondering if you'd like to go to town with me today. I've got to do the shopping and I know you haven't been yet. I thought you might enjoy a day out."

He nodded. "Yes, of course! I'd love to."

"Don't be so keen. It's a dreadfully small town." Sherlock said, standing to refill his mug with coffee. "There isn't much to see or do."

"Sherlock, please." Elise turned to him. "You don't have to make excuses. If you want to keep John to yourself, all you have to do is say so." She smirked when he glared at her. "But if it's just spending time with him you're worried about, you are more than welcome to join us."

Sherlock scowled at her, but eventually nodded. "Fine."

"Don't be such a grouch," she stood and smacked him on the shoulder as she passed him. "Come on, Arabella. Let's get you dressed." She turned to John and Sherlock. "Meet me at the truck in ten."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note:**

**Okay, so next week I'm heading up to college (yay, how exciting!) but it also means I'll be a lot busier. I will try very hard to update weekly, but no promises.**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

The drive to town took all of twenty-five minutes, during which Sherlock was made to carry two pies. He sat in the back seat with Arabella, and John took the front.

"We're taking this to the Thomson's," Elise told them, and pointed to the apple pie in Sherlock's lap. He let out a deep sigh. "Oh, hush. Mary just got out of the hospital and you're going to visit her. I don't care that she always forces you to drink her bad tea and likes to pry, okay? The cherry pie is for Mrs. Erikson."

The town was located on a stretch of land nestled between three enormous lakes. The entire portion of land was 17 kilometers long and 8.5 kilometers wide, the town itself only being 5 kilometers by 3 kilometers. Elise lived at the far southwest corner of it, the actual shops and most of the residents' houses were located at the northeast end. There were two lakes on either side, and the third at the southern side, separating the two roads that led to the little town.

They parked in the middle of town, near the Golden Bakery which "made the most delicious bread!" according to Elise. They made their rounds in the town, introducing John to everyone they saw. As small a town as it was, gossip travelled fast and people began to walk up to him, saying "Oh, you must be John!"

Many of the women that he met flirted unabashedly with Sherlock, though he hardly seemed to take notice at all. John grew a little jealous every time a woman walked up to them and kissed Sherlock in greeting. He wondered how he had gotten them all to adore him so well, as arrogant of a man as he usually was. It obviously wasn't because he was so kind and polite.

Elise pointed out every shop and told John, in length, of the families that owned them.

"Oh, the man in the Barber Shop really is lovely," she would say, "If you need a haircut, he is certainly the best I've ever seen."

Most of the buildings were very old, built centuries ago. The newest building was the hospital at the far end of town.

As they walked back to the truck with their spoils, the local tavern caught Elise's eye. She quickly changed route and headed straight for it. It was one of the oldest buildings in the town, complete with faded paint and a wooden sign hanging in front that read "The Tavern Nimue."

"Um, why are we going to a tavern?" John asked.

"The owner owes me a bottle of whatever I want each month until I die because he lost a bet." Elise informed him, giggling at the memory of said bet.

John nodded and held the door for everyone as they walked in. A dark haired girl was mopping, and a tall, bulky, bald man with a curly moustache was cleaning glasses behind the bar. The place was otherwise empty – it not being late enough for most people to start drinking yet.

Despite his daunting appearance, Arabella broke from her mother and ran around the bar to his arms, attacking him in a hug. He hoisted her up into the air with ease, spinning her around and laughing. Arabella squealed with delight.

"Look how big you are!" the man said, setting Arabella gently on the ground. He spoke with a Russian accent.

"Soon, I shall be as tall as you!" she stretched her arms as high as she could reach for emphasis.

"Oh, I hope not. I would be having a hard time picking you up, then."

She frowned at the thought.

"My dear Elise!" he leaned over the bar to kiss her cheek. "How are you being? Come to take my best liquor again?"

"I don't like what you're implying, Kristov." She pursed her lips. "Can't a woman come visit an old friend just because she can?"

He raised an eyebrow at her and gave her a look.

She laughed. "Right. You know me too well for that." Elise turned and grabbed John's hand, pulling him forward. "Kristov, this is John Watson, a friend of Sherlock's from London. John, this is Kristov Arapov."

Kristov extended a meaty hand toward John, shaking his hand with a firm grip. "Good to be meeting you." He smiled at John warmly.

"Likewise." John said, smiling back awkwardly. He'd met too many people today.

"How are you liking our little town? It must be very different from London."

"Oh, well, yeah. It's a lot more peaceful here than London." John began, but he felt like he was repeating himself, having had this conversation with many of the other people that had greeted him today. "People are much nicer here, I've noticed. Except Sherlock. He's the same as ever."

Sherlock didn't even seem to notice his name being said. Kristov just laughed and reached under the counter. He pulled out a bottle of alcohol and waved it in front of Elise.

"How you always know just what I want will never cease to amaze me." She took the bottle and slid it down into her bag. They chatted away, John and Sherlock stood quietly the background, content to be ignored.

Sherlock was being very quiet. John wondered what he could possibly be thinking about. God only knew with that man was thinking.

John desperately wanted to take his hand, wrap his arms around his waist, kiss him in one of the dark corners of the tavern until he moaned in ecstasy. He sighed. Sherlock was off in his own little world.

"I really do hate to be leaving so soon, Kristov," Elise said, "but we should be going. Mary's just out of the hospital and I said I'd be by today."

"Ah, yes! Please be giving her my best wishes for her to be getting better."

Elise nodded, "I will!" She leaned over the bar to kiss Kristov's cheek. "Thanks, love. You have a good day, okay? And I'll be by with a homemade pie for you sometime next week." She squeezed his hand and stepped out the door.

"It was nice to meet you, Kristov," John shook his hand again before turning towards the door.

"And you as well! You seem like good fellow. Sherlock is lucky man!" Kristov winked, and before John could gather his wits enough to respond, Sherlock pulled him out the door.

"God, is it that obvious?" John whispered, mostly to himself, as they walked back to the truck.

* * *

They walked up the steps to the Thompson's house. The house was bright blue with white trim and a wraparound porch. The lawn was perfectly trimmed complete with colorful flowers, a hideous fountain which a cherub sat atop, and many various lawn gnomes and figures.

Sherlock hated it. He despised everything about the place, but most of all, the people living there. They fed him stale biscuits and awful tea and tried to force their ideas and opinions down his throat, but wouldn't listen to his irrefutable proof and cold, hard facts. Sherlock found the Thompson's repulsive. He instantly went into a dark mood at the mere mention of the place.

Mary's granddaughter, Helen, answered the door. He liked her least of all. She lived here, with her grandparents, taking care of them. Her grandparents seemed to think she and Sherlock were some sort of item, and she did too, apparently.

"Sherlock!" She greeted him first, kissing him lightly on the cheek and embracing him in a hug that John felt lasted a little too long. "Elise! Arabella!" She hugged them both. "You must be John!" She grinned at him and met him in a hug.

"Uh. Yeah. That's me." He hugged her back awkwardly.

"I'm Helen Thompson," she leaned back, still smiling.

Helen was tall and thin, with long blonde hair. She looked about thirty, maybe a little younger. She seemed very bubbly. No. That wasn't the word. Airheaded. She was a beautiful girl, but seemed to be lacking a bit upstairs.

Helen grabbed Sherlock's hand, leading them into the house. "You must be here to see Grandma Mary. She'll be delighted you stopped to see you. She's been anxious to meet you, John."

He plastered a smile onto his face. This was not going to be pleasant.

She led them down the hall and into a brightly lit room with wallpaper the same shade of blue as the outside of the house. John had to refrain from wrinkling his nose. The house smelled like prune juice and medicine. An elderly woman wearing a hip brace sat at the far end of the room a couch with a hideous floral pattern that was probably as old as she was. Sherlock cringed upon entering the room.

"Sherlock!" She almost shouted, the delight evident in her voice. "Oh, how lovely to see you all!" Elise handed her the pie. "Oh, Elise, you shouldn't have! Mmm, apple. How delightful! Thank you my dear!"

Elise took Arabella and sat on the couch opposite Mary. Helen waited for Sherlock to sit, obviously intending on sitting near him. He crossed the room to the couch and sat next to elise, leaving no room for Helen on the couch. Helen followed closely behind and seated herself in the chair next to Sherlock's side of the couch.

Mary beamed at John and gestured for John to sit next to her. "And you must be the infamous John I've heard so much about!" She squeezed his hand when he sat. "How does our little town compare to – where was it – London?"

He took a deep breath, preparing the response he'd been giving all day. "Yes. London. Well, it's a lot smaller, of course. People here are much friendlier though. And since it's so small, everyone knows everyone. You guys are better-knit out here. Over all, it's much nicer here than London." People just wanted to hear that their little town could compare to the big city. That the outside world wasn't as good as what they'd settled with.

She smiled and offered John tea. He looked up at Sherlock as he put the cup to his lips. Sherlock was shaking his head and nodded toward the kettle.

_How bad could it be?_ He took a small sip to be polite. The moment the liquid hit his tongue he regretted it. It was the worst tea he had ever tasted. Even with three spoons full of sugar and cream it was still extremely bitter and left a dry feeling in his mouth.

They looked at him expectantly. He smiled and nodded a bit too enthusiastically as he struggled not to choke.

She patted his knee and turned to Sherlock. "See? Even John enjoys my tea!"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I assure you, he's simply being –"

Elise kicked his leg hard and glared at him. Sherlock just turned away and sat in the corner brooding in silence. Helen did her best to get his attention and include him in the conversation, but Sherlock just ignored her. She took to casually placing her hand on his leg, extremely close to his crotch. John grew immensely jealous when Sherlock made no move to push her away.

When she removed her hand he immediately stood and moved toward the window, causing Helen and Mary to frown deeply. He gazed out the window in extreme concentration, ignoring everyone else in the room.

He stared at Sherlock, off in his own little world. He was again filled with the desire to be touching him. Not necessarily in a sexual way, he just wished he had the opportunity to hold his hand, trail his fingertips up the bared skin on his arm. He sighed.

Were he and Sherlock even going to come out to anyone besides Elise? _Oh, god._ He didn't know if Sherlock even wanted anyone to know. Sherlock wasn't exactly the type to divulge personal information without painful interrogation.

What would happen when they went back to London? If they went back to London. Sherlock certainly wasn't showing any signs of going back any time soon. Sherlock broke from his musings and turned to John, noticing his staring. The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile.

And that was it. It didn't matter. Nothing did. As long as he had Sherlock, it didn't matter if other people knew or what they did in public. He loved Sherlock and, damn it, he would do whatever the hell he wanted, no matter who saw.

He nodded at Sherlock to come sit with him. Sherlock smirked, knowing what John had in mind. He approved completely. He crossed the room and John pulled him down next to him. Since the couch was only a loveseat, he ended up half on top of John. He chuckled, wrapping an arm around Sherlock and pulling him close as he brushed his lips against his cheek.

They looked up to the gaping faces of Mary and Helen, their eyes wide. Elise was grinning, and Arabella furrowed her eyebrows in confusion to their reactions.

"Well!" Mary shrieked when she regained her composure, though her face was turning red with rage. Helen's eyes were still wide with shock. "Gentlemen, that kind of thing will not be tolerated in this household. Now, if you would be so kind as to either remove yourselves from each other or leave."

Elise stood, taking Arabella's hand. "I think this is the point where we take our leave. It was lovely seeing you. I hope your hip heals well. John? Sherlock? I think it's time to go."

"Yes. Right." John nodded and Sherlock moved off of him. He stood and offered a hand to Mary. "Lovely meeting you."

She sneered at the offered hand. "I'm sure."

"Well. Okay. Right." He pulled his hand back and turned toward the door.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John and nibbled at his earlobe in spite of them. Mary gasped and made a disgusted noise. Sherlock just pulled John closer.

They kept their arms around each other as they made their way back to the truck. The two men slowed their pace and let Elise and Arabella make some distance between them.

"Thank you, by the way." John said.

"For what?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Well, you didn't have to do that. I mean. You really didn't have to come out. Like that. I understand if you didn't want people up here to know. They seem very… judgmental. They seem to care a lot about that sort of thing…"

Sherlock stopped and turned John toward him. "John," he sighed. "I really could not care less what these imbeciles think of me. Thick headed fools, the lot of them. Most of these people aren't my friends. I don't care about them. Only you." He leaned over and kissed John's forehead.

Sherlock took John's face in his hands and stared down at him. John couldn't tell what was going through his mind, his expression not discernible.

John grabbed Sherlock's front belt loops and pulled him close for a quick kiss then took Sherlock's hand and dragged him to the truck with Elise. He could see Sherlock's sly smirk from the corner of his eye.

* * *

Mrs. Erikson's house was much more to Sherlock's taste. It had a very Victorian feel to it. They walked up a wheelchair ramp to the door. Elise knocked on the dark wood. A gargoyle knocker grinned down at them.

"Come in!" An elderly voice rang from the other side of the door.

They let themselves into her house and rounded the corner to her front parlor. A white-haired woman in an electric wheelchair greeted them with a warm smile. This house was so much cozier than the Thompson's. It smelled like warm tea and toast with jam. The room had a black and white wallpaper that reminded John of their flat. Navy blue furniture sat around a dark-wood coffee table with a china tea set on top.

Sherlock immediately spotted the phone sitting next to her on a small table and her clenched fists.

"What did she say to you?" He narrowed his eyes at the phone.

Elise and Arabella crossed the room and took the chair next to Mrs. Erikson, Elise holding Arabella on her lap.

She smiled at Sherlock. "So perceptive, as always." She sighed. "Mary called. She felt the need to warn me." She scoffed. "She said – ugh – she practically yelled at me, 'They're faggots, Anne. Don't you let them on to your property!' The ignorant fool." She looked up at Sherlock and John and grinned. "_Oh,_ did I tell her. I said, 'Oh, good. Now I've got someone to have homoerotic sex in the pentagram I've drawn up on my sitting room floor while I practice my weekly Satanic rituals. Because, really, that's all homosexual couples do, isn't it?' Then I hung up on her!"

John was stunned at the elderly woman's statement. Sherlock beamed at her and leaned down to kiss her cheek gently. "You crazy, wonderful woman!" Sherlock turned to John, "John, this is Anne Erikson. One of the dearest friends I've come to know since coming to this dull little town."

"Oh, you are a handsome one, aren't you?" She offered a sly smile. "Come sit with me, love. Tell me all about yourself."

John and Sherlock took the loveseat next to Anne, but sat so close together they only occupied half of it. They nestled in, Sherlock's arms wrapped around John. Anne smiled at their entanglement, clearly happy for the two men.

"Care for a cup of tea?" She offered.

John glanced at Sherlock who nodded, leaning forward to pour each of them a cup.

Anne laughed. "I assure you, my tea tastes nothing like Mary's."

John sipped at the tea, and his eyes lit up. "Wow! This is delicious!"

She grinned, "It's my own special blend." She winked.


	6. Chapter 6

Elise put Arabella to bed and went herself not half an hour later. John and Sherlock stayed up, John reading and Sherlock working on some sort of experiment at the desk. He poked and prodded at a large cow eye. John wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he assumed Sherlock hadn't found it when he let out a frustrated sigh and wiped everything off the desk into the trash bin. He stormed to the bathroom and John could hear the tap as he washed his hands.

Sherlock almost slammed the door when he came back into their room.

"You okay?" John stared up at him from behind his book.

"God, John!" Sherlock threw his hands up. "I just can't think with you staring at me like that. Really, I can literally feel you watching me. It's maddening!"

"Uh. I'm sorry?"

Sherlock grabbed the book out of John's hands and threw it on the nightstand.

"Hey! I didn't mark my page!"

"372."

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock but did nothing to stop him from removing John's shirt.

"You are so bloody _distracting_." Sherlock whined as he kissed up John's sternum.

John scoffed. "I was just reading. Would you prefer I sit and stare at a wall?"

Sherlock leaned back from sitting atop John. "Obviously not. You'd still be thinking – and that's what disrupts me most of all!"

"Shut up." He growled at Sherlock then squarely planted a kiss on his mouth. John played with the ends of Sherlock's curls, lightly scratching the base of his hairline. He ran his hands down Sherlock's chest, undoing each button achingly slowly.

Sherlock groaned in protestation to John's intent on moving at what he thought was a sluggishly slow pace. John smirked, gripping the belt loops of Sherlock's trousers. He pulled Sherlock down on him roughly, grinding his hips hard against Sherlock's.

John gripped his shoulders and pushed Sherlock over onto his back. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the amount of arousal this provided him was evident in the tent in his trousers. "I think I like where this is going."

"Stop talking," John commanded, his eyes dark with desire.

He placed his mouth on Sherlock's neck, running his tongue along the unprotected flesh. He pressed his hands over Sherlock's chest and down his abdomen, making his way to his trousers. John removed the trousers over his head, followed by his own, getting pants and trousers in one go.

John loved Sherlock's body – everything from his lean body type to his blindingly pale skin. He so enjoyed having his way with it. He kissed and sucked from Sherlock's neck to his hips, pausing only to give extra attention to those areas that seemed to make him writhe the most. He was still discovering Sherlock's body and it pleased him to no end to find one of his sweet spots.

John settled himself low between his legs, resting his forearms on Sherlock's hips. He paused briefly when he got to Sherlock's cock. He'd only ever had two other sexual encounters with men before, and in neither instance had he given any head. This was new for John and it thrilled him to be experiencing it with Sherlock. He decided not to be intimidated by the dick – after all, if a woman could give amazing oral without having any idea what her lover was feeling, so could he.

He sank his mouth around Sherlock's already erect penis as far down as he could go without gagging, ignoring his own erection entirely. He used his hand and excess saliva to close the distance between his mouth and the rest of the shaft. Sherlock stiffened under him and thrusted his hips forward ever so slightly. John built a rhythmic motion between his hand and mouth, using his tongue to probe Sherlock's cock. Sherlock fisted one of his hands in the sheets and the other gripped John's head.

John ran the tip of his tongue over his glans and down to where he knew his own pleasure spots to be. When he found one of Sherlock's he stopped to massage these areas with his tongue, earning deep moans from Sherlock. Sherlock let out a loud whimper when John sucked his head and flicked his tongue over his slit.

Sherlock bit his hand, trying not to wake the other sleeping members of the household. But trying to be quiet while receiving your first blow job was like trying to get a single atom of oxygen by itself – it just wasn't going to happen.

Sherlock moaned increasingly louder as he involuntarily thrusted into John's mouth. John looked up at him and Sherlock did his best to shrug. He almost could have begged John to start up again. It drove Sherlock mad to watch John's head as he bobbed up and down on his cock. The concentration in his face as he focused on Sherlock's dick sent him over the edge.

John started back up while reaching an arm toward Sherlock's face and pressing his fingers into his mouth. Sherlock took the hint and began to suck ruthlessly on them.

John moaned with Sherlock's cock fully enveloped in his mouth; the vocal vibrations around his dick almost making Sherlock cum on the spot. John slid his fingers out of Sherlock's mouth and pulled them down to Sherlock's arse. He ran one finger lightly over Sherlock's entrance teasingly, making him shudder violently.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's torso, digging his heels into John's back. He could feel the vertebrae in John's spine, the muscles that lined his back, the motion of his body as he moved up and down Sherlock's cock.

John slid his middle finger carefully into Sherlock's entrance. He loved how tight Sherlock's arse was.

"Oh, god, John!" Sherlock bucked his hips forward and moaned. He'd barely begun to move his finger around in the warm, soft flesh when Sherlock came hard into John's mouth. John tried not to gag, but the amount of cum shooting to the back of his throat was almost too much.

John swallowed all of Sherlock's cum, making sure nothing dripped onto the clean sheets. He loved the taste of it, and guessed he'd be giving more of these in the future.

Sherlock's chest heaved as he came down from the intensity of the orgasm. John crawled between his legs and rested his head on Sherlock's chest. John listened to the soft rhythm of his heartbeat and the easy rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. As he came off his high he realized he could feel John's neglected erection pressing firmly into his thigh.

He reached down for John's cock. "John, let me take care of-"

John batted his hand away. "I'm fine for now," he propped himself up so he could look at Sherlock's face. "Think you have another one in you?" He kissed Sherlock's chin.

John could feel the pull of Sherlock's skin as he smiled. "I think I could go another round."

John ran his hands through Sherlock's hair as he kissed him. He rested his hand on Sherlock's strong neck and stroked his jawline with his thumb.

When they broke, John rolled off the bed and retrieved Elise's gifts of lube and condoms. He stared back at Sherlock waiting patiently on the bed for him and smiled. He walked to the edge of the bed and stood by Sherlock's feet. He tossed the lube and a couple condoms onto the bed next to him and ran his hands up Sherlock's legs, pushing them apart.

He kissed a trail up Sherlock's thighs as he moved himself between them. John squirt a decent amount of lube into the palm of his hand and coated his fingers in it. He watched Sherlock close his eyes and lean back, waiting for John. Sherlock's face tensed and he inhaled sharply when John proceeded to slip a single finger into his arse. He gently pushed in and out until Sherlock relaxed.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper.

He added another finger making Sherlock buck his hips slightly.

"Yeah?"

"John… I'm really glad I'm doing this with you – _Oh god, John_," he arched his back when John began massaging his prostate. "I mean to say… I wouldn't want to be with anyone else. Ever."

John stopped momentarily and moved up to Sherlock's face. "I don't think anyone else could stand you for this long." He laughed and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. "I love you."

Sherlock hooked an arm around John's neck and kissed him hard. "You, too."

John's erection was starting to become a bit painful. He reached to the floor where he'd tossed his towel earlier that morning. He wiped his hands on the still damp fabric and reached for the two condoms lying next to Sherlock's hip.

He'd decided to go for the condoms for two reasons. The first being that replacing the sheets daily would be too much of a hassle. The second that he didn't want to overwhelm Sherlock by cumming inside him his first go round. He didn't have to ask Sherlock to know that he was more than mildly concerned about being on the receiving end of anal sex.

He slowly unrolled a condom onto Sherlock's stiff cock, then the other on his own.

"Ready?" John asked as he situated himself between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock nodded. John pushed into him gently. Sherlock grunted and clenched a fist in the sheets.

John watched his face contort in pain and ceased all movement. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock shook his head abruptly. "No, just give me a moment."

Sherlock had felt a small surge of pain when John entered him – it was nothing like John's fingers. It radiated into him like a wave, and although he hadn't estimated it would feel this way, he couldn't say it was an entirely unpleasant feeling.

He felt a set of warm lips on both his closed eyelids. He stared up at John waiting patiently for Sherlock to compose himself.

He cupped John's face in his hands. "Okay," he whispered and kissed John tenderly.

John gently began to thrust into Sherlock. His toes curled every time John pushed into him. It was like a simultaneous burst of aching pain and pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Good lord, it was intoxicating!

"Faster!" Sherlock moaned into John's mouth.

His eyes rolled back in his head as John quickened his pace. He sucked and licked Sherlock's neck, tasting the salt of his sweat-soaked skin. Sherlock moaned and writhed beneath him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John. He clawed his sweat-slick back. John angled his hips just so he hit Sherlock's prostate with each thrust. Sherlock cried out and dug his fingers into John's shoulders. He wrapped an arm around his face, biting the crook of his arm to prevent anything else from escaping his mouth.

John grabbed Sherlock's hands and pinned them above his head. "I want to see your face when I make you cum."

Sherlock threw his head back, biting his lip, as John shoved into him hard. Sherlock came first with a grunt. John watched his face contort in bliss. He was amazed how such profound pleasure resembled suffering.

John gripped Sherlock's hands and pumped harder.

"I'm so close," he gasped.

His world exploded into pure elation. He collapsed on top of Sherlock, burying his face in Sherlock's neck. They lay there in a tangled heap, just breathing each other in. John unwillingly extricated himself from Sherlock and disposed of their used condoms in the bin Sherlock kept by his desk.

John climbed lazily back into the bed. Sherlock pulled the comforter around them and inched the window open with his foot. John snuggled closer to Sherlock at the cold breeze that filled the room.

"Good lord, John," Sherlock whispered in his ear, "That was the single most brilliant thing I've ever felt in my life." He nibbled John's earlobe.

John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's, twisting their fingers together.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." He chuckled, clearly pleased.

They fell asleep tangled in one another's arms.

* * *

John woke before Sherlock the following morning. He yawned and stretched, though he still wasn't as long as Sherlock. The day was dull and gray; the clouds created an opaque layer that refused to let even the tiniest beam of sunlight through. It was cold, the kind that chilled one down to the bones.

He shivered, stretching, and carefully removed himself from their entanglement. His first thought was to close the window Sherlock had opened the previous night. He then put on a jumper and pear of warm sweats.

He recovered his book from the pile of clothes Sherlock had so carelessly tossed it in. He quietly made his way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and toast with jam then to the library.

John coaxed a fire into the small hearth that resided on the far side of the library, once he'd warmed up he settled back down on the couch with his book. He flipped to – what was it? – page 375. No – 372.

He'd finished the book he was on and had already begun another before Sherlock woke.

"John!" Sherlock whined, crawling on top of John. He was in pajamas and a bath robe.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked without looking up from his book.

Sherlock sprawled himself over John's body. "John! I'm _bored_!"

"Then get a book."

"I've already read them all," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "That would be even more dull, John. Be reasonable."

He wormed his way in between John and his book and settled on John's chest, staring down at him.

John sighed. "So what do you propose I do about it?"

Sherlock smirked down at him and raised his eyebrows slyly. "I can think of a few activities we could use to occupy our time."

John chuckled, "I'm sure you can."

Sherlock kissed John tenderly. John pulled him closer and deepened the kiss, rubbing the back of Sherlock's neck.

There was a small gasp at the doorway. Sherlock looked up to see Arabella standing in her pink nightgown, Heathcliff in her arms, and tears welling in her big, green eyes. She dropped the stuffed giraffe and ran down the hall. Sherlock listened intently to the thump of her footsteps. They seemed to trail to the study.

"Don't worry, I've got it," he said with a sigh and rolled off John.

He rubbed his eyes as he made his way down to the study. He gently pushed the door open.

"Arabella?" he called.

Small sobs and sniffles were his only response.

The room was a maroon color with a large mahogany desk in the center. He pushed the chair back and ducked below the desk.

"Go away!" She shrieked and turned away, wrapping her arms around her legs.

He balanced himself on the balls of his feet. "If you'll simply speak with me, I'll let you alone."

She huffed at him in response.

"Now is this any way for a young lady to act? Tell me, what would Miss Jane Bennet do in your position, hm? Would she pout in a corner? No! Of course not!" He held out a hand. "Come now, what's got you so put out?"

She sniffed and wiped her face on her sleeve. She turned to him, her bottom lip jutting out. She crawled to his open arms. He picked her up and sat in the leather chair.

Arabella took a shuddering breath. "Sherlock… I- Do you-" She sniffed. "Are you and John boyfriends?"

Sherlock stifled a chuckle. "Yes."

"Oh." She sounded heartbroken.

"Arabella, do you have a crush on me?"

She nodded rapidly, her face glowing red as her hair.

He smiled at her. "Really? A sweet girl like you having affections for someone like me? Oh, my dear, you are far too good for a cynic like me."

"Oh, but Sherlock, you're wonderful!" She protested.

"You are far too sweet, but a relationship between you and I could never transpire. I can get very grumpy and hard to deal with. Not a lot of people can stand me for so long. Isn't that right, John?"

John pushed the door open and stared in sheepishly.

"Sorry, what? I was just, uh, on my way to the bathroom…"

"Sure you were." Sherlock gestured for John to come in.

John chortled and leaned against the desk, facing them.

"Arabella," John started, leaning toward her. "If you were to ask me whom I think a good companion for you would be I certainly would not say Sherlock."

"You're just saying that because you're with him," she bit back quickly.

He smiled. "I wouldn't lie to you. My personal feelings for Sherlock aside, Arabella, he's really too much of pretentious know-it-all."

She nodded and stared down at her lap. Sherlock shifted her on his leg, she was cutting off circulation.

She looked up at Sherlock with curious eyes. "Do you love each other?"

"Yes," the two men replied in unison.

She pursed her lips and stared at Sherlock intently. "Are you going to be together forever?"

John's heart skipped a beat, his gaze turned to Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock said without hesitation. And he meant it. Of all the people Sherlock had ever known, John was the one he could see himself spending his life with. He was certainly the only one who could stand Sherlock for that long.

He glanced at John who smiled, seeming almost relieved. John leaned forward and pecked Sherlock's mouth.

Arabella stared at the two men, her nose scrunched. "Ew! You guys kiss?"

"Actually," Sherlock started, "we do more tha-"

John nudged Sherlock to shut him up.

"If you wanted to be in a relationship with Sherlock, you'd have to kiss him too!" John teased.

Arabella squealed and jumped off Sherlock's lap. "That's gross!"

She ran out of the room, already having forgotten about her crush.

John chuckled and leaned over Sherlock. "So, um, did you… did you mean what you said to Arabella?"

"If I did?" He wrapped his hands around John's waist, pulling him close.

"Oh, good. Um, yeah… Good." John tried to hide his pleased smile.

"And… you find this satisfactory?" Sherlock trailed his fingers down John's arms to his hands, avoiding John's eyes.

John squeezed Sherlock's hands. "I want to spend every day of the rest of my life with you. I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He gave John a tight smile, blinking hard. "I'm glad." His voice hitched.

The realization struck John like a train. He should have seen it before now – how lonely Sherlock was. Despite how hard he tried to pretend he was better off without others in his life, he was afraid of being alone for the rest of his life. When Sherlock "died", he had to leave everything behind him. John had still had Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and – well everyone. Sherlock had Molly, only every once in a while. He had to find new people to fill his life with. John knew how hard it was for Sherlock to make friends.

John knelt before Sherlock. "Sherlock?"

He turned away, blinking rapidly.

"Sherlock, look at me." John waited for him to turn. "I love you. And I will never leave you. I promise."

"You can't be sure. Things can change, John." His face was unreadable as he said this.

John shook his head. "Not this. This I know. I love you. That will never change."

He kissed Sherlock and hugged him awkwardly in the chair. Sherlock pulled him close, taking a deep breath.

They remained in each other's arms for some time. They didn't separate until the front door flew open and someone bounded up the stairs. Heavy steps: Alistair. What was he doing home this time of day?

"Sherlock!" He cried upon reaching the top of the staircase.

"Study!" Sherlock called back.

There was a loud thump as he jumped over the last few steps on his way back down. John stood up and leaned against the desk.

"Sherlock, you've got to come quickly!" His breathing was ragged as he stood in the doorway, out of breath. "There was a murder – and the body! Christ, Sherlock, you're in deep. You have to come now!"

"Murder most foul." He smirked. "But I don't see why my presence would be required. The reason I'm here is to get away from that life."

"Sherlock, you have to," Alistair insisted. "The victim's body – your initials were carved into his chest."

Silence fell in the room.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Elise is there now, stalling them from further contamination of the scene, but you must hurry."

He nodded and sprung forth from the chair. "Finally! Something exciting to happen in this dreary little town!" he shouted as he ran out the door.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time. John followed behind slowly. Sherlock was throwing his clothes all around the room, deciding what to wear.

"None of this works!" Sherlock whined. "I long for my old wardrobe."

John chuckled at his enthusiasm. "You'll just have to make do with what you've got."

Guess Sherlock found a cure for his boredom after all.


	7. Chapter 7

The entire ride to the scene of the murder was dreadfully long. Sherlock couldn't stop fidgeting. He tapped his fingers on the armrest. His right leg bounced relentlessly.

Alistair gripped the wheel tightly as he drove, his knuckles turning white and his veins protruding on the backs of his hands. What had Sherlock gotten himself into? He was supposed to be dead to the world. No one was to know he was alive or his whereabouts. He glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. He seemed giddy – not worried. That only concerned him more.

Alistair pulled into the driveway of a rundown looking house with three police cars parked in the mud around the house. A "For Sale" sign leaned against the front fence, caked with dirt and grime to the point where the words were almost incomprehensible. The paint on the outside of the house was faded and peeling. The yard was almost entirely mud, the only foliage being that of weeds.

They walked down a barely visible cement path toward the front door already hanging open. Elise seemed to be having a heated conversation with one of the officers about Sherlock. All eyes fell on him as he entered. The little town so seldomly had something so exciting as a murder, so the whole police force had shown up. Sherlock paid them no mind as he walked purposefully to the body. Alistair joined Elise with the male officer.

A woman's body lay sprawled on the landing halfway up the stairs. She had short sandy blonde hair and lightly tanned skin. Her head was thrown back and a long cut ran around the front of her neck, dried blood had pooled beneath her. A gold chain hung just above the gash, two gold rings hanging from it. She had on dark blue jeans and white trainers. Her pink blouse was pulled below pale breasts, exposing two letters carved just above her breasts. Sherlock stared at the SH big and bright on her chest.

"What the hell is he doing here?" One of the police officers sneered, looking at John.

Sherlock didn't look up. "He's my partner." He crouched beside the body, his eyes fixated on her face.

"Well, obviously," the man said scornfully. "Doesn't mean you have to bring him everywhere with you." He sounded disgusted.

Sherlock glared at the man as with more ferocity than a wild beast. He stood and stepped over the body, walking down the stairs toward him.

"He is my romantic partner as well as my work partner," Sherlock stepped so close to the man he was almost touching him. "If that's a problem, I suggest you step outside, because he stays."

The man gulped and nodded at Sherlock.

"Good." Sherlock turned on his heel and returned to the body, the officer all but forgotten.

The other officers stared at him, their mouths agape. Elise smirked smugly to herself. Alistair struggled not to laugh aloud.

John looked at one of the other officers. "We'll be in need of some gloves, if you'd be so kind."

He handed John two pairs of latex gloves. John nodded in thanks and climbed the stairs to Sherlock.

"You're gonna need these," he gave a couple gloves to Sherlock and stood back to watch him work.

Sherlock turned the woman's head, examining the back of her neck. He held up both her arms, comparing them. He lifted the chain on her neck and held the rings close to his face, rubbing the inside and out with his finger. Something on the woman's neck caught Sherlock's eye. He leaned closer to the slash across her throat.

"Give me your pen," Sherlock held his hand out to the rude officer, who had been playing with his pen for the last five minutes.

The man reluctantly handed it over. Sherlock took it and immediately began to probe the slash on her neck.

"Interesting." He muttered and motioned for John to come to him. "John."

John bent over to check where Sherlock had been looking. He handed over the pen to John, who poked and prodded the woman's neck.

Elise watched the two men work. It was amazing, really. The two complemented each other perfectly. They worked together so harmoniously, almost as though they completed one another. She smiled at how they seemed to know what the other wanted by just gestures. They whispered back and forth as they examined the woman's body.

The officer they'd had problems with earlier scoffed under his breath. "Who the hell do they think they are anyway?"

Elise turned to him, "I'm sorry. Didn't catch your name, officer?"

"David McConnell, at your service, ma'am." He held out a hand to her.

She raised her eyebrows at him and he let his hand fall. Elise turned back to Sherlock and John, still inspecting the body.

"You listen well, _Officer McConnell_," she said with enough venom in her voice to down an elephant, "because I'm only going to say this once, you close-minded, pigheaded son of a bitch." She kept her voice low so the others couldn't hear. "These men are the best of the best. Better than you, better than me. They have the most talented minds I have ever seen in my life. And you would do well to stand there, shut the hell up, and listen to every goddamn word they have to say. Because chances are, he figured out everything you know within five minutes of being in here."

"Alistair, control your wife," the man reproved.

"Even if I could, I stand by her on this one," Alistair remarked as he wrapped an arm around his wife and glowered down at the man.

McConnell apparently didn't like that because he stormed out of the hallway into another room, muttering something about collecting evidence. One of the other officers snickered as he left.

Sherlock stood abruptly. "She was an American nurse – from a southern state. She died from asphyxiation, not the gigantic gash on her neck – though she was indeed killed here. All assumptions you previously made about this woman are incorrect," he announced.

He trotted down the stairs, John trailing behind him, and headed for the door.

"Wait!" A female officer called. "How did you figure that out?"

Sherlock sighed. They were new to his tactics. They couldn't just accept his facts and move on.

"It's so painstakingly obvious." He said begrudgingly.

"Sherlock." John warned. He was already in enough trouble as it was with his initials carved into the victim's chest.

Sherlock scowled but answered the woman without too much condescension in his voice, "The brands on her clothes – American. The tone of her skin suggests she tans easily, but not naturally from the pallor of her breasts. Her left arm is darker than the other, suggesting it tanned while she drove, likely in a sunny area – southern state. Her extremely clean trainers and the fact that she wears her wedding ring on a necklace indicate the medical field. Manicured nails – nurse. Do keep up."

"Oh… but asphyxiation?" She continued to question him.

"Clearly the tendons in her neck were crushed – John has confirmed that for me. And I think it is safe to assume that if you measured the amount of blood pooling underneath her it would total the exact amount of a blood bag found at the local hospital," he said smugly and walked out the door.

The woman took notes then they all flocked up the stairs like sheep to collectively inspect Sherlock's theories.

Sherlock wandered about the yard, studying the mud closely. He frowned at the amount of footprints on the ground. These novices might have ruined their best hopes of finding out the murderer's appearance.

But wait. There! Just beside the wall – a full footprint. He examined the shape and length of the impression, comparing it with what he recalled the others to be wearing.

Perfect. A full imprint of the assailant's foot in pristine condition. He scanned the area for another – all he needed was the heel. Got it! Being thoroughly familiar with the measurements of his own hand he went to work, scrutinizing every centimeter of the tracks.

"It's so exciting to watch him work, finally!" Elise grinned as she strolled out of the house, with Alistair following closely behind.

"Elise!" Alistair chided.

She pouted at him but toned down her enthusiasm.

Sherlock stood abruptly and walked toward the group that had half-formed near the door.

"Sherlock, what have you got?" Elise cried.

He didn't wait for the officers to flip open their notebooks, but jumped right in. "A man killed her. Left-handed. About 170 to 180 centimeters tall weighing 250 pounds. He walked with a limp in his right leg. And he smokes a pipe."

He turned back toward their vehicles as a signal he was ready to leave.

"But, how?" One of them had asked. Why, oh, why did they have to ask?

He let out a tortured sigh and rattled off complex mathematical equations that left them all staring at him blankly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed but proceeded to clamber into the truck. Well, that was that. A few moments later John climbed into the driver's seat next to him.

* * *

Sherlock was being uncharacteristically quiet, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

John pulled to the side of the road. "What's wrong?" John asked against his better judgment.

"Nothing." One word. That was promising.

"Liar."

Sherlock frowned, reaching into his pocket. He paused, looking much like a stubborn toddler determining whether or not he would share his favorite toy. He huffed a sigh and retrieved an envelope and handkerchief, handing the latter to John. He carefully unfolded the fabric to "reveal a few strands of long brown hair.

"The woman's hair was cut post mortem," Sherlock told him, "I'm still not sure why."

John raised his eyebrows. "You're sure this isn't from the killer?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course. The skin on the back of her neck was far lighter than the rest of her. She'd recently had long hair."

John nodded. "And the envelope?"

"I haven't opened it yet." He ran his fingers over the smooth paper. He tore the side of the envelope and shook out a small, folded piece of paper.

Sherlock stared cryptically at the creased paper in his hands.

"John. Keep driving," he said as he crumpled the paper and dropped it to the floorboard.

"What did it say?" John reached toward Sherlock's feet to recover the crumpled mass.

"Wrong." Sherlock's face was blank. "_Wrong!_" he repeated incredulously.

"What do you think it means?" John inquired, but it was too late. Sherlock had already retreated back into his shell. He wouldn't be speaking again anytime soon, John knew.

He pulled back onto the main road and drove back to Elise's. The moment they arrived he'd gone up to their room and shut the door. Apparently he didn't want interruptions. There was really no contacting him once he digressed back to this almost catatonic state.

* * *

John and Elise took the opportunity of Sherlock's oblivious state to take a small trip. They told no one where they were headed or why they'd gone. They had been gone two full days before Sherlock noticed.

He stalked down the hall toward the master bedroom and knocked.

A small pause before, "Yes? Come in," from Alistair on the other side.

Sherlock pushed the door open.

"In here," Alistair called from the bathroom. He was shaving, the whiskers a startling red in comparison to his brunette hair.

Sherlock started in for Alistair. "Where's John?" he demanded.

Alistair laughed, rinsing the razor and setting it on the edge of the sink, "Did you really just notice they were gone? They said you were oblivious, but really!"

Sherlock scowled at the man, "Don't mock me. Where has he gone?"

"He left with Elise more than a day ago. I don't know where they've gone. They didn't tell me, they were certain you'd figure it out just by looking at me – those powers of deduction and whatnot."

He cursed to himself, he knew Alistair was telling the truth. But he could have sworn he was just talking to John not a moment ago. He left without a word and paced for a good part of the day.

* * *

They returned that evening, toting multiple large cases Sherlock was quite aware even Elise wouldn't have needed for just a couple days gone. Sherlock waited at the door for them. John came in carrying the largest case.

"Go sit in there," John told him as he gestured to the front sitting room with his head.

Sherlock sat on the nearest couch and pulled his feet underneath him. John set the case next to Sherlock and Elise brought one more in and set it on the coffee table in front of him.

Sherlock stared at it before John finally looked at him and said, "Just open it already!"

He carefully opened the luggage next to him, peering cautiously inside. Sitting on top was his dear skull, the best conversationalist he'd ever known. He set the skull on the table and dug further. His trench coat, blue scarf, gloves – everything he needed for his work. Even his favorite purple shirt was tucked away in there. A soft smile played on his lips at the sentiment attached to these objects. He turned to the other suitcase on the table.

"Go on then," Elise urged.

Sherlock flipped open the top and there, sitting atop all the notebooks he used for composing, was his violin. He lifted it out and set it on his lap. He undid the buckles of the case and tossed open the lid. Gingerly he raised the violin and set the case aside. He ran his fingers over the soft wood up to the knobs. Sherlock pulled the violin to his chin and ran the bow slowly over the strings. He missed the familiar sound of his instrument.

He quickly tuned the thing and set into playing them a melody, it was low and sweet. Playing again came back to Sherlock so quickly and naturally, it was almost as though he'd never stopped. John didn't recognize what he played but he suspected there were a lot of songs Sherlock knew that John had never heard.

Sherlock beamed at the other two, he'd so missed his violin. It was like a piece of him – a musical extension of himself.

"Thank you," he bent to kiss John, "both of you."

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep or eat that night either, but he laid in bed with John anyway, wrapping his arms tightly around him. He hardly noticed as the hours passed and the first rays of dawn peaked through the window. His thought process had come to a halt long ago, though he hardly wanted to move from that position to perhaps gain a new perspective. The warmth of John's body radiated around him pleasantly like his own little space heater.

The morning grew brighter and he could smell Elise cooking breakfast as its scent radiated throughout the house. He cautiously extricated himself from the bed and flipped open his violin case. John would enjoy this.

He drew his bow upon the violin. Morning has Broken, he'd decided on.

Sherlock settled on his side of the bed and began playing, slow and soft. He watched John's face as he slowly came out of his deep sleep. There was a sharp intake of breath as he woke, his eyes fluttered awake. He smiled lazily at the violin next to his head.

"That's lovely," John yawned as he stretched out. He scooted over and rested his head in Sherlock's lap.

When Sherlock finished he bent to kiss John's forehead. "How'd you sleep?"

"Well," he smiled, staring up at Sherlock's eyes that seemed to change their color daily. Now they were seafoam green. "But I am beginning to miss my own bed, you know."

Sherlock was silent.

"Sherlock… You know we're going to have to go home sometime…"

"I don't see why," he said indignantly.

Of course the idea of two grown men living with another family for the rest of their lives didn't strike Sherlock as odd in the slightest.

John sighed. "Because," he rubbed Sherlock's hand where it rested on his chest, "we can't just let all my friends think I've dropped off the face of the planet. I haven't talked to any of them in, oh, a month now?"

When Sherlock didn't look convinced he decided to go about a different angle. "And wouldn't it be nice to be home, in our own flat, in your own bed?" John said as he "absentmindedly" stroked the inside of Sherlock's thigh. "We could get Mrs. Hudson a white noise machine. Then we could be so much louder. I could scream your name to the whole of Baker Street as you fucked me against your own sheets…"

He stared up at Sherlock who had a glazed over look on his face. He quickly broke from his reverie and his expression immediately changed.

"Oh, don't give me that look!" John glared at him.

"What look? This is my normal face."

"No, that's your 'Not 'til I'm done with my case' look."

Sherlock simply smirked at him. John supposed that was the best he could ask from Sherlock. He sighed, still stroking Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock stilled John's hand. "It wouldn't do for you to give me an erection before breakfast, and you're already halfway there."

"Oh, come now." John grinned up at him. "Don't tell me you aren't up for a little fooling around?"

"I'm on a case, John. I don't need a distraction."

"It might clear your head, actually." John tried to convince him.

Sherlock paused and John took the opportunity to roll onto his stomach, his face mere centimeters from Sherlock's already half-stiff cock. He ran his hands up Sherlock's thighs, kissing one of his hipbones. Sherlock took a deep breath, leaning back slightly to allow John easier access to his cock.

"Really, I do find it helps to clear one's head," John whispered against his skin, "I could suck you off," he nibbled up Sherlock's thigh, "maybe even finger you a little, just cause." And just as he leaned in to take Sherlock's dick in his mouth he sighed, "But you have a case to do, don't you?"

When John moved to get up Sherlock wrapped his legs around him. "Finish what you start," Sherlock growled at him.

John smirked, pushing Sherlock onto his back as he crawled between Sherlock's legs up to his mouth. He kissed the downturned corners of Sherlock's frowning mouth.

"Do you really think I'd leave you to fend for yourself?" John asked.

"Yes."

John laughed. He might have, if he thought he'd get to watch.

He pushed Sherlock's legs wide apart and went to work on his dick. Sherlock moaned as John licked his up his shaft and sucked on the head of his cock, all the while fondling Sherlock's balls. He massaged the slit with his tongue, loving the salty taste of Sherlock's precum. John swallowed Sherlock's cock in as far as his throat would allow and wrapped his free hand around his cock to get where his mouth couldn't reach.

John pumped Sherlock with his hand when he moved down to suck his balls. He reached underneath himself to work his own cock with his other hand.

"No, no, no," Sherlock chided. "I want your _full_ attention on me. Here, turn this way."

John moved so he straddled Sherlock's face while he sucked Sherlock off. Sherlock arched his back to help relieve the height difference. He wrapped his arms around John's hips and raised himself up and teasingly licked the tip of John's cock. Sherlock took John's cock in his mouth, letting gravity aid it as it slid down his throat. He'd long ago rid himself of his natural gag reflex, having to tolerate many unnatural smells and sights in his studies. He copied John's movements at first but easily adapted what he was doing to what made John squirm the most.

Sherlock was a quick learner, John would give him that. Sherlock had already pinpointed all of his tender spots. John moaned and thrusted hard into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock showed his distaste with that by biting him slightly – not hard enough to hurt him but enough to get his point across. John flinched back, but continued sucking Sherlock's penis, contemplating how Sherlock would feel if he did a little biting of his own.

Sherlock wet his fingers in his mouth then reached back around John and lightly ran a finger over John's arse making him shudder. He slowly pressed a finger in, feeling around for John's prostate. When he found it he carefully massaged it.

"Fascinating," he mumbled at the deep moan he'd earned from John.

Sherlock came first, thrusting hard into John's mouth. He let his head fall from John's dick and lay on the bed breathing hard.

"Sherlock," John pleaded. "Sherlock you have to keep going."

He traced his patterns down John's hips with his fingertips.

"Dammit, Sherlock," he sighed. "_Please_."

Sherlock smiled to himself and finished John off. John grunted as he came in the back of Sherlock's throat, warm and salty as it slid down his throat. John rolled onto his back next to him. His hand rested on Sherlock's chest moving with the slow rise and fall of his every breath.

"You prick," John said as he scowled at Sherlock.

Sherlock laughed.

Breakfast was probably over with by now. If John was lucky there might be leftovers for him somewhere. He dressed and kissed Sherlock before turning to the door.

"Sherlock, aren't you coming to breakfast?" John asked as he stood in the doorframe.

"Of course not, John. You know I don't eat when I'm on a case," he said, staring at the ceiling. "I can't afford any other digesting distractions like I'm about to have to do with your-"

"Right, then. Never mind." John shuffled out of the room.

As he was shutting the door Sherlock called, "Make sure to get the door on your way down. It's for me."


	8. Chapter 8

John wondered about Sherlock's uncanny ability to predict the police as he opened the door to let in the female officer that had been so astounded by Sherlock's work. John led her to the kitchen where the entire family sat around the table, finishing the last bits of breakfast. Alistair stared at her over the top of his newspaper. Elise's eyes widened with curiosity.

"There's been another murder," she told them before anyone could make any assumptions as to her reason for being there. "So don't look so excited. We haven't caught the murderer _yet_. We think it was the same person though."

"Are you positive?" Sherlock appeared next to her, clad in his fitted black trousers and his purple button-up shirt that John couldn't deny he found completely arousing. His trench coat was draped over his arm.

"Well, you see, that's what I'm here for," the woman fidgeted. "We decided it would be better to work with you, since you seem to know what you are doing."

Sherlock smirked. John rolled his eyes. It astounded John how quickly his arrogance returned to him. But at the same time – no, it didn't. Not at all.

"Let's be on our way, then, shall we?"

It seemed John would be skipping breakfast, per usual when they were on a case.

* * *

Elise had practically jumped on the opportunity to join them on another case, volunteering immediately to drive them to the crime scene.

This one was closer into town. A small alley behind the bakery. Sherlock held up the cautionary tape for John as he ducked under it.

A young man, mid-twenties perhaps, had been impaled onto a wooden electrical post, the hilt of a sword protruding from his abdomen. He had almost black hair and extremely pale skin. He was wearing black slacks, an apron, and a white button up shirt with a maroon tie. He was lean with muscular arms and hands. Physically nothing connected this man to the nurse. Except that his shirt had been torn open and, in the same scrawling handwriting, was SH carved into his chest.

"Cause of death?" John asked to no one in particular, hoping to somewhat diminish the intense aura of incompetency Sherlock so easily caused them to feel.

"I don't know, the bloody sword in his stomach?" Officer McConnell piped up.

"Bloody hell," John muttered to himself.

"Wrong," Sherlock said, just loud enough for McConnell to hear.

McConnell's face twitched and he turned away. Elise gasped when she saw the man from the other side of the tape.

"Oh, no." She whispered. "I knew him. He was sweet. A waiter at this restaurant we used to go to. Sherlock would remember him. Poor boy."

John squeezed her shoulder and she shooed him away to help Sherlock. He joined Sherlock at the end of the alley, where the man hung slack jawed on the post.

"What do you know?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't even look up to him when he answered, "Waiter. He was poisoned. He was stabbed post mortem. See this bruising here?" He gestured around the man's abdomen, where the hilt of the sword protruded. "It was caused by blunt force – definitely a person's fist."

John examined the wound closer and confirmed Sherlock's statement. "Is it safe to assume that this blood was taken from the hospital as well?"

Sherlock nodded and opened one of the man's green eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He leaned in closely to the man's face. He opened his other eye and examined it as well. He squinted as he stared at both the man's eyes together. Sherlock held open the other's right eye and reached his hand to it. He slid a gloved finger across the man's iris and came away with a small, green contact lens.

"Bag, John," he said as he held it close to his face.

John hurriedly retrieved an evidence bag and returned to Sherlock.

"Isn't there another?" John stared quizzically at the single contact in the bag.

"Hm? No. Heterochromia. One blue eye, one green. But not proud of it apparently."

Sherlock took the hilt in his hands and leaned toward the man, acting as though he were the one doing the stabbing. He crouched and repeated the process. He slowly shifted up with each repetition. He measured the length of the blade and the width of the pole. He took a sample of the wood after much poking and prodding.

He ran the numbers over and over. It wasn't adding up.

"No. No. No." Sherlock muttered to himself.

"What is it?"

But he didn't answer John.

Measuring and re-measuring. Calculating and recalculating. It wasn't the same person. But it was. The handwriting on his chest was precisely the same. It wasn't possible. There weren't two killers, that much he was certain of. So what, then?

Sherlock scribbled the new measurements of the man and handed it to John as he stalked past the police back to Elise's car. John handled the police – as he had always done for Sherlock – and followed him back.

* * *

Sherlock went straight to the library when they returned home. John checked on him some hours later. He carried a tray in his hands and gently tapped on the door.

"Sherlock?" he called.

The room was extremely dark, despite the sun still being up. Sherlock must have shut the heavy curtains at some point. He cracked the door open and found Sherlock on the floor, laying parallel to the sofa.

"Sherlock, I've brought some tea, would you like some?" he offered.

He hoped Sherlock wasn't flustered today by knowing the man. He never had before, but Sherlock had been out of the business for a long while. And the killer was clearly trying to rattle him.

"John, come lay with me." He patted the floor next to him.

John set the tray on the coffee table next to the couch. He lay next to Sherlock on the floor, staring at the ceiling, hoping maybe he could see what Sherlock saw.

But no one saw how Sherlock saw. His vision – the way he worked – was a mystery to all who knew him.

"So, what are we looking at?" John pondered.

Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth to shush him. Apparently he was just there for company. When Sherlock was sure John would be quiet he removed his hand and held John's in his own, rubbing his thumb along John's knuckle. Every once in a while he would throw his hands in the air and wave them around as though erasing something. Sometimes he'd hook his hands around some invisible object and shift them around or latch on to something and hold it very still then toss it to the side.

John wondered if Sherlock counted it as a blessing or a curse to see like he did. John thought it was beautiful.

Eventually he moved to the sofa, dragging John along with him. Sherlock sat on the back of the couch while John took a seat between his legs, sitting on the couch like a normal person. Sherlock rested his elbows on John's shoulders and steepled his fingers above John's head as he stared at the wall contemplatively.

Sherlock ran the numbers through again and again. He calculated every possibility as to why the man's measurements were different this time around when clearly it was the same person who killed both people.

All John could think about was all that wasted tea.

* * *

Sherlock spoke even less than usual in the following days. He got like this when something truly puzzled him about a case. If he didn't think he had the answer (or was at least close to it) he refused to speak any of his theories aloud.

Every once in a while John would catch him muttering something like "nothing is what it seems" but that was all he heard from him.

John worried about how distant Sherlock was becoming from even him. The last time he acted this way was with Moriarty, and wasn't that a lovely thought?

It wasn't long before he started getting restless – as though he were waiting for something to happen. Something unpleasant.

* * *

Sherlock had been staring at the ceiling of the study for hours. He watched the shadows on the ceiling move as night turned into day and tiny rays of sunlight danced into the room. The inactivity of just lying on the floor caused him to grow cold, despite the heat of the warm embers in the fireplace at his feet, left from a fire John had built for him Sherlock didn't know how many hours ago. He couldn't seem to bring himself to get up and get a blanket or stoke the small fire no matter how cold he got.

And here they came. The cavalry of a single police car had arrived, armed with what Sherlock knew was safe to assume grim news.

"Elise!" Sherlock yelled from where he lay on the floor, "Elise, the door!" It was the first he'd spoken in a while.

Sherlock didn't move a muscle to retrieve it for her. He wasn't anxious to see who it was this time. If he had inferred correctly, each person was going to be someone he knew more intimately each time. First someone he'd never come into contact with, then a mere acquaintance, now… he didn't want to guess. He could only imagine the killer's endgame.

* * *

Elise answered the door just as the man behind it reached to knock.

"Oh! Fergus! What are you doing here?" Elise said to the Superintendent of the local police precinct.

The large man was dressed in full uniform. Although he had graying hair, his beard and moustache were flaming orange to make up for it.

He removed his hat and stared at Elise solemnly. "Elise, may I come in?"

She noted he was wearing his uniform and her breathing increased. She swallowed hard. "I take it this isn't just a casual visit, then?"

He was silent.

"Right. Come in then."

Elise opened the door wider and gestured for Fergus to step inside. She shivered, not sure if it was from the crispness of the outside air or the fact that the Superintendent was making a house call when he rarely left for even murders.

She shut the door but the chilling sensation didn't leave her. Hm. Must have been the latter.

Elise wrapped her arms around herself. She rubbed, trying to cause friction to bring the warmth back to her.

Her heart beat faster as she offered him tea, "It's so cold this morning, I have something warm in the kitchen I could make up if you like?"

He shook his head, "No, thank you," he said gruffly. "Is there somewhere we… might be able to talk?"

She sighed. _So much for prolonging the inevitable._

"Can't we talk here?" She pleaded.

"Elise," he put a hand on her shoulder, "you may want to sit down."

_Shit. _She was afraid of that.

He followed her to the front sitting room where he watched her pace the length of the room multiple times before she finally sat down. Fergus remained standing. She crossed her arms tightly in front of her, and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths.

It couldn't have been the kids or Alistair, she'd seen them off to school and work personally. But Elise was close to most everyone in the town, so it could have been anyone really.

Elise wished Alistair hadn't left for work this morning. She desperately wished he could have been there with her receiving the news beside her. He was the best at comforting her. She wanted him there with her, letting her squeeze his hand so tightly it stopped the blood flow, and giving her a gentle squeeze of support in return. She settled for digging her fingernails into her palms instead.

Finally she nodded at Fergus.

"I'm sorry to have to give you the news, Elise," he took a deep breath, "Last night, Kristov was murdered."


End file.
